UC-NRLF 


^  EI\NE$T  DE  LANCE/ 


THE     MERRY    MUSE 

SOCIETY  VERSE  BY  AMERICAN  WRITERS 


THE  MERRY  MUSE 

SOCIETY  YE.R-SE IB'.'? I 
BY  AMERICAN  WRITERS 


EDITED  nv 


ERNEST  DE  LANCEY  PIERSON 

Editor  of  "Society  Verse";  Author  of  "Shadow  of  the  Kr.r? 
"A  Slave  of  Circumstances,"  etc. 


NEW  AND  ENLARGED  EDITION 


CHICAGO,  NEW  YORK,  AND   SAN   FRANCISCO 

BELFORD,  CLARKE    &   CO. 

PUBLISHERS 

LONDON  :  H.  J.  DKANE,  LOVELL'S  COURT,  PATERNOSTER  Row 


COPYIHOIIT,  1SS9. 
I1ELFORD,  CLARKE   &    COMPANY 


TO 

MRS.  JAMES   BARROW 

("AUNT   FANNY") 


929821 


PREFA  TOR  Y  NO  TE. 

The  friendly  reception  of  "  Society  Verse,  by  American 
Writers"  has  encouraged  the  editor  to  prepare  this 
larger  and  more  representative  collection,  now  published 
wider  the  title  of  "  The  Merry  Muse" 

In  a  country  where  Pan  is  fast  becoming  a  household 
divinity,  it  has  been  found  impossible  to  collect  in  one 
volume  specimens  by  all  the  scholars  in  this  merry  school 
of  song.  A  sufficient  selection  has  been  made  to  display 
whatever  variety  of  style  and  subject  is  to  be  found  in  the 
best  vers  cle  societe  by  American  Writers. 

The  rules  that  govern  what  is  called  the  ' '  Patrician 
Poetry  ' '  of  the  Old  World  cannot  properly  be  applied  to 
these  lively  lyrics  of  the  New.  And  yet  what  our  aver- 
age verse  lacks  in  polish  and  dignity  of  expression  is 
more  than  atoned  for  by  the  spirit  of  native  humor  that 
pervades  nearly  er>ery  line. 

It  has  been  thought  best  not  to  hold  any  reserved  scats 
in  this  symposium  of  singers. 

Here  brown  heads  and  gray  are  grouped  democratically, 
and  it  is  to  be  hoped  amicably,  together.  May  their  pleas- 
ant pipings  stir  a  responsive  and  sympathetic  chord  in 
the  public' 's  feelings  and  finances,  is  the  sincere  wish  of 
the  subscriber. 

ERNEST  DE  LANCEY  PIER  SON. 
New  York,  January  12. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. 

The  editor  would  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the  fol- 
lowing publishers  in  allowing  the  use  of  valuable  copy- 
rights:— To  Messrs  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  selections 
from  "Airs  from  Arcady,"  by  H.  C.  Bunner  ;  Cassell 
&  Company,  selections  from  "  Oberon  and  Puck,"  by 
Helen  Gray  Cone,  and  "Pipes  from  Prairie  Land,"  by 
Minnie  Gilmore  ;  D.  Lothrop  &  Co.,  selections  from 
"With  Reed  &  Lyre,"  by  Clinton  Scollard,  and  "  Post- 
Laureate'  Idyls, "  by  Oscar  Fay  Adams  ;  Ticknor&Co., 
for  selections  from  "Vagrant  Verse,"  by  Charles 
Henry  Webb,  and  "  Songs  and  Satires, "  by  J.  J.  Roche  ; 
Roberts  and  Brothers,  for  ' '  Provencal  Lovers, ' '  by 
E.  C.  Stedman,  from  "  The  Masque  of  the  Poets"; 
Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  selections  from  "A  Midsummer 
Lark,  "by  W.  A.  Crofut ;  Keppler  &  Schwarzmann, 
for  verses  by  C.  C.  Starkweather,  Madeline  Bridges. 
R.  K.  Munkittrick,  Gertrude  Hall,  and  A.  E.  Wa- 
trous  ;  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  for  selections  from 
the  works  of  John  G.  Saxe,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 
Bret  Harte,  and  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  ;  Har- 
per and  Brothers,  for  "  De  Convenance,"  by  Mrs.  M. 
P.  Handy,  "A  Kiss,"  by  Joel  Benton  and  "One  of 
the  Pack, ' '  by  George  Parsons  Lathrop,  in  the  ' '  Monthly 
Magazine"  ;  "The  Judge"  Publishing  Company,  for 
verses  by  DeWitt  Sterry  ;  Porter  and  Coates,  for  se- 
lections from  "Mask  and  Domino,"  by  David  L. 
Proudfit  ;  Cupples,  Hurd  &  Co.,  for  selections  from 
"  Songs  at  the  Start,"  Louise  Guiney  ;  The  Cosmopoli- 
tan Magazine  Company,  for  verses  by  Duffield  Osborne 
and  Edith  Tupper  ;  and  The  Century  Company  for  the 
following  poems  from  "The  Century"  Magazine: 
"Marjorie's  Kisses,"  "  Time's  Revenge. "and  "On  the 
Fly-Leaf  of  a  Book  of  Old  Plays,"  by  Walter  Learned: 
' '  To  Mrs  Carlyle., '  *  and  ' '  The  Message  of  the  Rose, ' ' 
by  Bessie  Chandler  ;  "  Her  Bonnet, "  by  Mary  Wilkins  ; 
"  The  Fair  Copyholder, "  by  Charles  Crandall ;  "  Le 
Grenier, "  by  Robertson  Trowbridge  ;  "In  Winter,"  by 
Louise  Chandler  Moulton  ;  "  The  Morning  After,"  by 
Harold  Van  Santvoord  ;  "Last  July, "  by  Sophy  Law- 
rence ;  "In  Arcadia,"  by  R.  T.  W.  Duke;  "Two 
Triolets,"  by  Harrison  Robertson  ;  "  Rondeaux  of 
Cities, "  by  Robert  Grant;  "On  a  Hymn  Book,"  by 
W.  J.  Henderson  ;  and  "The  Critic"  Company,  for 
verses  by  Irving  Brown. 


CONTENTS. 

ADAMS,  OSCAR  FAY.                                              PAGE. 
Where  are  the  Pipes  of  Pan I 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY. 

On  an  Intaglio  Head  of  Minerva 3 

AUSTIN,  HENRY. 

Durant  le  Diner 6 

BATES,  ARLO. 

Love  is  a  Knave 9 

Triolet 10 

BENTON,  JOEL. 

A  Kiss  by  Mistake 1 1 

BERG,  A.  E. 

Called  Back 13 

BOCOCK,  JOHN  PAUL. 

A  Candid  Proposal 15 

To  a  Friend  on  his  Wedding  Day 16 

BROWN,  VANDYKE. 

A  Seaside  Incident 18 

BROWNE,  IRVING. 

How  a  Bibliomaniac  Binds  His  Books 20 

BUNNER,  H.  C. 

Yes? 23 

She  Was  a  Beauty 25 

Just  a  Love  Letter 26 


xii  CONTENTS. 

BRIDGES,  MADELINE.  PAGE. 

Refused , 30 

Even  Up 32 

Afterward 33 

Her  Logic 34 

CONE,  HELEN  GRAY. 

An  Ivory  Miniature 35 

Ballad  of  Cassandra  Brown 38 

CHANDLER,  BESSIE. 

The  Message  of  the  Rose 41 

To  Mrs.   Carlyle 43 

The  Stork's  Jeremiad ., . . .  .  45 

CRAIG,  BALLARD. 

Folly... ,     47 

CRANDALL,  CHARLES. 

The  Fair  Copy-Holder 48 

A  Song  for  the  Hickory  Tree 49 

CROFFUT,  W.  A. 

In  Switzerland 51 

DUKE,  JR.  R,  T.  W. 

In  Arcadia 54 

EYTINGE,  MARGARET. 

An  Old  Bachelor  to  an  Old  Maid 56 

FAY,  ANNA  MARIA. 

Rondel 57 

FAULKNER,  HENRY  C. 

Ballade  of  the  Rose 58 

Between  the  Lines. 60 

Ballade  of  the  Balcony 63 

FOSTER,  DAVID  S. 

The  Game  of  Chess 65 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

GILMORE,  MINNIE.  PAGE. 

After  the  Ball 67 

A  Lost  Friend 68 

GRANT,  ROF.ERT. 

Rondeau  a  la  Boston 7° 

"             "        Philadelphia 71 

"             "        Baltimore 72 

"        New  York 73 

GUINEY,  LOUISE  IMOGENE. 

Private  Theatricals 74 

Lo  and  Lu .  75 

HALL,  RUTH. 

Ballade  of  the  Shepherdess 77 

Winter's  Wooing 79 

Too  Learned 80 

MALL,  GERTRUDE. 

Mrs.  Golightly . . '. Si 

HANDY,  MRS.  M.  P. 

Alnaschar „  83 

De  Convenance 85 

HARVEY,  J.  C.  ^ 

A  Challenge 87 

HARTE,  BRET. 

Half  an  Hour  Before  Supper 88 

What   the  Wolf  Really  Said  to  Little  Red 

Riding-Hood 91 

HART,  JEROME  A. 

A  Boutonniere 92 

HENDERSON,  W.  J. 

On  a  Hymn  Book 93 

Palmistry 96 


X1V  CONTENTS. 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL.  PAGE. 

My  Aunt 97 

To  the  Portrait  of  a  Lady 100 

Aunt  Tabitha 102 

HILDRETH,  CHARLES  LOTIN. 

Heart  and  Hand 104 

LATHROP,  GEORGE  PARSONS. 

One  of  the  Pack 106 

LAWRENCE,  SOPHIE  ST.  G. 

Last  July 109 

LEARNED,  WALTER. 

Time's  Revenge in 

On  the  Fly  Leaf  of  a  Book  of  Old  Plays 112 

Marjorie's  Kisses 1 14 

LUMMIS,  CHARLES  F. 

My  Meerschaums 115 

My  Cigarette , 1 18 

LUDERS,  CHARLES  HENRY. 

A  Boutonniere 120 

Deception 121 

MATTHEWS,  BRANDER. 

An  American  Girl 122 

Ballade  of  Adaptation 124 

MARTIN,  EDWARD  S. 

Mea  Culpa .........  126 

Infirm 129 

MOULTON,  LOUISE  CHANDLER. 

The  Rose  She  Wore  in  Winter ,  130 

A  Little   Comedy '. 131 

In  Winter 133 

MUNKITTRICK,  R.  K. 

The  Ballade  of  the  Engaged  Young  Man ....  135 

An  Old  Beau 137 


CONTENTS.  xv 

OSBORNE,   DUFFIELD.  PAGE. 

Prcesens  Regnat 138 

To  a  Corkscrew *39 

PIATT,  DONN. 

We  Parted  at  the  Omnibus 14° 

PIERSON,  S.  H. 

At  Mrs.  Millidor's 143 

Ballade  of  Midsummer 146 

PIERSON,  E.  D. 

Violets , 148 

Blowing  Bubbles H9 

PECK,  SAMUEL  M. 

An  April  Maid 151 

A  Southern  Girl 153 

PECK,  WALLACE. 

Courting  an  Heiress 155 

PETERS,  WILLIAM  THEODORE. 

To  a  Slipper 157 

PROUDFIT,  DAVID  L. 

Tatting 159 

Down  the   Switchback 161 

ROCHE,  JAMES  JEFFREY. 

If 163 

Don't t 164 

ROBERTSON,  HARRISON. 

Coquette 1 65 

Two  Triolets 167 

Appropriation 1 68 

REESE,  LIZETTE  WOODWORTH. 

The  Rhyme  of  a  Fan 1 70 

A  Rosebud 171 


xvi  CONTENTS. 

SAXE,  JOHN  G.  PAGE. 

Cloe  to  Clara .  172 

A  Reasonable  Petition 174 

SCOLLARD,  CLINTON. 

To  a  Chinese  Idol 175 

At  the  Letter-Box 177 

Rose  Leaves 179 

SMITH,  HENRY  B. 

At  the  Church  Door 180 

My    Mausoleum 182 

A  Marriage  &  la  Mode 183 

SMITH,  S.  DECATUR. 

At  Bar  Harbor 185 

A  Woman's  Weapons 187 

STERRY,  DE  WITT. 

An  Old  Glove 188 

STARKWEATHER,  C.  C. 

Ballade  of  Barristers 190 

Rivals 192 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  C. 

Proveii9al  Lovers 193 

Toujours  Amour , 195 

Pan  in  Wall  Street 197 

TILTON,    THEODERE. 

French  with  a  Master 201 

TROWBRIDGE,  ROBERTSON  . 

Le  Grenier 204 

TUPPER,  EDITH  S. 

Understood 206 

TYRELL,  HENRY. 

To  a  Japanese  Baby 207 

Mittens 209 

Mis-matched.  .  .211 


CONTENTS.  xvii 

VAN  SANTVOORD,  HAROLD. 

The  Morning  After 213 

WATROUS,  A.  E. 

Her  First  Train 214 

Old  Bohemians 216 

WEBB,  CHARLES  HENRY. 

Her  Name  was  Felice 218 

Discarded ; 219 

In  the  Bay-Window 220 

WILCOX,  ELLA  WHEELER. 

The  Duet 222 

Illogical 224 

WILKINS,  MARY  E. 

Her  Bonnet . .  .  226 


WHERE  ARE  THE  PIPES  OF  PAN? 

OSCAR    FAY   ADAMS. 

IN  these  prosaic  days 
Of  politics  and  trade, 
When  seldom  Fancy  lays 
Her  touch  on  man  or  maid, 
The  sounds  are  fled  that  strayed 
Along  sweet  streams  that  ran; 

Of  song  the  world's  afraid : 
Where  are  the  Pipes  of  Pan? 

Within  the  busy  maze 
Wherein  our  feet  are  stayed, 

There  roam  no  gleesome  fays 
Like  those  which  once  repaid 
His  sight  who  first  essayed 

The  stream  of  song  to  span ; 
Those  spirits  all  are  laid : 

Where  are  the  Pipes  of  Pan? 


WHERE  ARE   THE  PIPES    OF  PAN? 

Dry  now  the  poet's  bays ; 

Of  song-robes  disarrayed 
He  hears  not  now  the  praise 

Which  erst  those  won  who  played 

On  pipes  of  rushes  made, 
Before  dull  days  began 

And  love  of  song  decayed : 
Where  are  the  Pipes  of  Pan  ? 

ENVOY. 

Prince,  all  our  pleasures  fade  ; 

Vain  all  the  toils  of  man ; 
And  Fancy  cries  dismayed, 

"  Where  are  the  Pipes  of  Pan  ?  " 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD  OF  MINERVA, 

THOMAS    BAILEY   ALDRICH. 

OENEATH  the  warrior's  helm,  behold 

The  flowing  tresses  of  the  woman  ! 
Minerva,  Pallas,  what  you  will  — 
A  winsome  creature,  Greek  or  Roman. 

Minerva  ?  No  !  'tis  some  sly  minx 
In  cousin's  helmet  masquerading ; 

If  not  —  then  Wisdom  was  a  dame 
For  sonnets  and  for  serenading ! 

I  thought  the  goddess  cold,  austere, 

Not  made  for  love's  despairs  and  blisses ; 

Did  Pallas  wear  her  hair  like  that  ? 

Was  Wisdom's  mouth  so  shaped  for  kisses  ? 

The  Nightingale  should  be  her  bird, 
And  not  the  Owl,  big-eyed  and  solemn  ; 

How  very  fresh  she  looks,  and  yet 
She's  older  far  than  Trajan's  Column ! 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD    OF  MINERVA. 

The  magic  hand  that  carved  this  face, 
And  set  this  vine-work  round  it  running, 

Perhaps  ere  mighty  Phidias  wrought 
Had  lost  its  subtle  skill  and  cunning. 

Who  was  he  ?    Was  he  glad  or  sad, 
Who  knew  to  carve  in  such  a  fashion  ? 

Perchance  he  graved  the  dainty  head 

For  some  brown  girl  that  scorned  his  passion. 

Perchance,  in  some  still  garden  place 
Where  neither  fount  nor  tree  to-day  is, 

He  flung  the  jewel  at  the  feet 

Of  Phryne,  or  perhaps  'twas  Lais. 

But  he  is  dust;  we  may  not  know 

His  happy  or  unhappy  story  : 
Nameless,  and  dead  these  centuries 

His  work  outlives  him  —  there's  his  glory  ! 

Both  man  and  jewel  lay  in  earth 

Beneath  a  lava-buried  city ; 
The  countless  summers  came  and  went 

With  neither  haste  nor  hate  nor  pity. 

Years  blotted  out  the  man,  but  left 

The  jewel  fresh  as  any  blossom, 
Till  some  Visconti  dug  it  up  — 

To  rise  and  fall  on  Mabel's  bosom. 


ON  AN  INTAGLIO  HEAD   OF  MINERVA. 

O  nameless  brother  !   See  how  Time 
Your  gracious  handiwork  has  guarded ; 

See  how  your  loving,  patient  art 
Has  come  at  last  to  be  rewarded. 

Who  would  not  suffer  slights  of  men, 
And  pangs  of  hopeless  passion  also, 

To  have  his  carven  agate  stone 
On  such  a  bosom  rise  and  fall  so  \ 


DURANT  LE  DINER. 

HENRY  W.  AUSTIN. 

VrOU  in  the  sunshine,  I  in  the  shadow — 

Thus  we  have  journeyed  our  whole  lite  long 
You  in  the  calm  of  your  Eldorado— 
I  in  my  tempest  of  song. 

Fortune  held  us  in  equal  favor 

When  we  started  with  youthful  hearts  ; 

Then  she  jilted  me.     I  forgave  her, 
For  she  left  me  the  lovely  Arts. 

Ah  !  she  could  not  of  them  bereave  me  ; 

They  were  mine  from  my  first  full  breath  r 
And  their  splendors  will  never  leave  me 

Till  the  sunset  that  men  call  death. 

Strange,  in  sooth,  is  the  retrospection  ! 

Strange  the  manifold  parts  I  played 
Chasing  ever  Delight's  reflection, 

Half-enamored  of  Sorrow's  shade  ! 
d 


D URA  NT  LE  DINER . 

You  and  I — what  a  contrast,  truly  ! 

I  with  passionate,  purple  veins  : 
You  alone  in  the  Ultima  Thule 

Of  Frigidity's  sordid  gains. 

You  a  mountainous  marvel  of  money, 
With  your  juleps  that  told  of  mints  : 

I  a  vagabond,  strange  and  funny, 
Called  Bohemia's  facile  Prince. 

Miser,  yours  was  a  shoddy  Palace  ; 

Venus  and  Bacchus  held  court  in  mine  ; 
Deeper,  I  swear,  have  I  drunk  Life's  chalice, 

And  even  the  dregs  to  my  taste  are  fine. 

All  my  tears  I  have  turned  to  laughter — 
Melted  like  pearls  in  a  nectar  bowl. 

What  though  nothing  may  be  hereafter, 
Here,  at  least,  I  have  had  my  soul. 

Yes,  I  have  had  it  and  found  it  splendid — 
Psyche,  Butterfly,  Dream  Divine  ! 

What  !     So  soon  must  it  all  be  ended  ? 
Double  the  perfumes  and  spice  the  wine. 

"  Sorrow  comes  in  the  guise  of  pleasure  ?  " 
Trite,  I'm  certain,  but  may  be  true  ; 

Therefore  bring  me  a  broader  measure, 
Bring  me  a  weed  of  a  darker  hue. 


DURA  NT  LE  DINER. 

You  may  sneer,  you  ill-savored  sinner  ; 

Wealth  and  power  were  denied  my  wits  ; 
Still  I'm  sure  (when  I've  had  my  dinner) 

That  my  misses  outmatch  your  hits. 

But  what  odds,  when  the  play  is  over, 
If  men  fancy  you've  won  the  game, 

Since,  though  always  you  lived  in  clover ; 
We  beneath  it  will  sleep  the  same  ? 


LOVE    IS  A   KNAVE. 

ARLO  BATES. 

1   OVE  is  a  knave  ;  he  plucks  a  rose 

Or  twines  a  curl,  and  toys  like  this 
He  spreads  to  snare  fond  hearts  ;  he  knows 
How  little  else  than  light  breath  goes 
To  vows  and  bubbles  both,  I  wis. 

The  most  bewitching  airs  he  blows 

On  sweet-voiced  pipes  ;  while  promised  bliss, 
Pledged  with  no  sure  fruition,  shows 
Love  is  a  knave. 

Sweet,  to  deprive  us  of  repose, 

Love  weaves  his  schemes  ;  but  naught  amiss, 
We  laugh  to  scorn  his  threatened  woes, 

And  cry,  with  warmest  clasp  and  kiss, 
Love  is  a  knave  ! 
9 


TRIOLET. 

ARLO  BATES. 

117EE  Rose  is  but  three, 

Yet  coquettes  she  already. 

I  can  scarcely  agree 

Wee  Ro^e  is  but  three, 

When  her  archness  I  sec  ! 

Are  the  sex  born  unsteady  ?- 

Wee  Rose  is  but  three, 

Yet  coquettes  she  already. 


A  KISS— BY  MISTAKE. 

JOEL   BENTON. 

T  |  PON  the  railway  train  we  met—- 
She had  the  softest,  bluest  eyes, 
A  face  you  never  could  forget — 

"  Sixteen  "  with  all  that  that  implies. 
I  knew  her  once  a  little  girl, 

And  meeting  now  a  mutual  friend, 
Our  thoughts  and  hearts  got  in  a  whirl  ; 

We  talked  for  miles  without  much  end. 

I  threw  my  arm  around  the  seat 

Where,  just  in  front,  she  sideways  sat, 
Her  melting  eyes  and  face  to  meet— 

(And  no  one  wondered  much  at  that) 
For  soon  the  station  where  she  left 

Would  on  the  sorrowing  vision  rise, 
And  I  at  least  should  feel  bereft  ; 

I  thought  a  tear  stood  in  her  eyes. 

She  was  but  kith,  not  kin  of  mine  ; 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  last  we  met, 
And  when  in  going  she  did  incline 

Her  face,  'twas  natural  to  forget, 


A   KISS— BY  MISTAKE. 

It  seemed  so  like  a  child  I  knew — 
I  met  her  half  way  by  mistake  ; 

And  coming  near  those  eyes  of  blue, 
She  gently  kissed  me — by  mistake  ! 

She  saw  her  error,  and  straightway  ran 

With  flaming  blushes,  rosy  red  ; 
I  should  not  be  one-half  a  man 

If  thoughts  of  wrong  came  in  my  head  ; 
In  fact,  I'd  take  that  very  train 

And  travel  daily  for  her  sake, 
If  she  would  only  come  again 

And  gently  kiss  me — by  mistake  t 


CALLED  BACK. 

ALBERT   ELLERY    BERG. 

THERE'S  a  lull  in  this  dull  Lenten  season 
Of  dressing  and  dancing,  et  cet.  — 
My  thoughts  turn  from  folly  and  treason, 

To  one  whom  I  cannot  forget ; 
Your  last  note  is  now  almost  yellow  ; 

We  quarreled — the  usual  way; 
I  smiled  upon  some  other  fellow, 
Because  you  were  flirting  with  May. 

And  when  we  went  home  from  the  party, 

Your  looks  were  as  cold  as  the  air  ; 
I,  too,  was  reserved,  and  no  hearty 

Good-night  kiss  was  asked  for  Mon  Cher ! 
The  next  day  I  wrote  you  a  letter 

Affecting  a  dignified  tone, 
And  told  you  I  thought  it  were  better 

In  future  to  leave  me  alone. 

My  pride  led  me  then  to  deceive  you, 
To  tell  you  my  love  was  all  dead, 

So  foolish  was  I  to  believe  you 

Would  read  'twixt  the  lines  —  but  instead — 


CALLED  BACK. 

You  thought  me  in  earnest,  and  parted, 

To  worship  society's  calf; 
But,  Jack,  I  am  now  broken-hearted, 

And  you  are  too  tender  by  half. 

We  have  been  far  too  much  to  each  other, 

To  sever  for  nothing  at  all, 
And  if  you  have  not  found  another, 

Why,  then  —  you  are  welcome  to  call. 
There's  always  a  seat  at  our  table, 

A  place  for  you  still  in  my  heart ; 
So,  Jack,  if  you  think  you  are  able, 

Come  back  and  rehearse  your  old  rjart ! 


A  CANDID  PROPOSAL. 

JOHN   PAUL  BOCOCK. 

I    LOVE  you,  love  you  !  love  you ! !  — yet  confess 
*   A  consciousness  of  trifling  does  come  o'er  me 
When  all  the  other  shapes  of  loveliness 

To  whom  I've  said  the  same  thing  rise  before  me. 
They  were,  you  are,  the  idol  of  my  heart ; 

An  idol  it  must  have  —  which  must  be  kissed.    Hence 
That  which  was  once  but  of  my  life  a  part 

Is  now  my  whole  existence. 

I  see  a  scornful  light  grow  in  your  eyes, 

And  yet  they  shine  like  stars  half  hid  by  mists 
Magnificent !  You  are  the  fairest  prize 

My  errant  heart  e'er  fougkt  for  in  love's  lists. 
You  see,  I'm  candid ;  you  have  bowled  me  over, 

And  now  I  drink  and  dine  and  bathe  in  love  ; 
1  puzzled  half  an  hour  just  to  discover 

The  perfume  of  your  glove  ! 

But  now  all  empty  was  this  heart  of  min-e; 

Some  woman  must  be  in  it.     With  that  rose 
Give  me  yourself,  and  walk  into  the  shrine 

Its  sovereign  goddess.  In  short,  I  propose  — 
My  !  Won't  the  Johnson-Mowbrays  be  enraged  ! 

This  summer's  changed  the  lot  of  many  a  rover  - 
That  you  and  I  be  genuinely  engaged 

Until  the  season's  over  ! 

2*  I 


TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HIS  WEDDING  DAY. 

JOHN   PAUL  BOCOCK. 

O  O,  Henri,  you  will  take  the  leap 
^  At  which  so  often  you  have  laughed ; 
You  must  have  taken  many  a  peep 

While  Hymen's  garden  wall  you  chaffed! 

There  never  was  a  likely  lad 

Who  didn't  some  time  want  to  marry ; 
I  hear  you  "  have  it  pretty  bad" — 

Sly  dog,  you  fetched,  now  you  must  carry ! 

No  more  late  suppers  at  the  club, 

No  more  the  quiet  poker  party; 
You've  had  your  outing  —  there's  the  rub  — 

You  must  keep  innings  now,  my  hearty  ! 

Henceforth  the  dear  domestic  hearth 
Shall  light  the  limits  of  your  vision ; 

Henceforth  your  dearest  joys  on  6arth 
Be  those  that  once  were  your  derision  ! 

I  see  you,  Henri,  walk  the  floor, 
I  hear  you  groan  —  it  must  be  colic  ; 

I  hear  a  faint  infantile  roar  — 

Behold  your  early  morning  frolic  ! 


TO  A    FRIEND   ON  HIS    WEDDING-DA  Y.  *7 

A  thousand  times  I  wish  you  joy, 

Bright  be  the  paths  where  Hymen's  beckoned ; 
Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip,  my  boy, 

And  here's  a  health  to  Henri  II.! 


A  SEASIDE  INCIDENT. 

VANDYKE   BROWN. 

"  \  A  7HY,  Bob,  you  dear  old  fellow, 

*    *      Where  have  you  been  these  years  ? 
In  Egypt,  India,  Khiva, 

With  the  Khan's  own  volunteers? 
Have  you  scaled  the  Alps  or  Andes, 

Sailed  to  Isles  of  Amazons  ? 
What  climate,  Bob,  has  wrought  the  change 

Your  face  from  brown  to  bronze?  " 

She  placed  a  dimpled  hand  in  mine 

In  the  same  frank,  friendly  way ; 
We  stood  once  more  on  the  dear  old  beach, 

And  it  seemed  but  yesterday 
Since,  standing  on  this  same  white  shore, 

She  said,  with  eyelids  wet, 
"  Good-bye.     You  may  remember,  Bob, 

But  I  shall  not  forget." 

I  held  her  hand  and  whispered  low, 
"  Madge,  darling,  what  of  the  years  — 

The  ten  long  years  that  have  intervened 
Since,  through  the  mist  of  tears, 

2  iS 


ig  A    SEASIDE  INCIDENT. 

We  said  good-bye  on  this  same  white  beach 
Here  by  the  murmuring  sea  ? 

You,  Madge,  were  then  just  twenty, 
And  I  was  twenty-three." 

A  crimson  blush  came  to  her  cheek, 

"  Hush,  Bob,"  she  quickly  said  ; 
"  Let's  look  at  the  bathers  in  the  surf  — 

There's  Nellie  and  Cousin  Ned." 
"  And  who's  that  portly  gentleman 

On  the  shady  side  of  life  ?  " 
"  Oh,  he  belongs  to  our  party,  too  — 

In  fact,  Bob,  I'm  his  wife ! 

"  And  I  tell  you,  Bob,  it's  an  awful  thing, 

The  way  he  does  behave : 
Flirts  with  that  girl  in  steel-gray  silk  — 

Bob,  why  do  you  look  so  grave  ?  " 
"  The  fact  is,  Madge  —  I  —  well,  ahem  ! 

Oh,  nothing  at  all,  my  clear  — 
Except  that  she  of  the  steel-gray  silk 

Is  the  one  I  married  last  year." 


HOW  A  BIBLIOMANIAC  BINDS  HIS  BOOKS. 

IRVING    BROWNE. 

T T)  like  my  favorite  books  to  bind 

So  that  their  outward  dress 
To  every  bibliomaniac's  mind 
Their  contents  should  express. 

Napoleon's  life  should  glare  in  red, 

John  Calvin's  gloom  in  blue  ; 
Thus  they  would  typify  bloodshed 

And  sour  religion's  hue. 

The  prize-ring  record  of  the  past 

Must  be  in  blue  and  black  ; 
While  any  color  that  is  fast 

Would  do  for  Derby  track. 

The  Popes  in  scarlet  well  may  'go  ; 

In  jealous  green,  Othello  ; 
In  gray,  Old  Age  of  Cicero, 

And  London  Cries  in  yellow. 


HO IV  A  BIBILOMANIAC  BINDS  HIS  BOOKS. 

My  Walton  should  his  gentle  art 

In  salmon  best  express, 
And  Penn  and  Fox  the  friendly  heart 

In  quiet  drab  confess. 

Statistics  of  the  lumber  trade 
Should  be  embraced  in  boards  ; 

While  muslin  for  the  inspired  Maid 
A  fitting  garb  affords 

Intestine  wars  I'd  clothe  in  vellum, 

While  pig-skin  Bacon  grasps, 
And  flat  romances,  such  as  "  Pelham," 

Should  stand  in  calf  with  clasps. 

Blind-tooled  should  be  blank  verse  and  rhyme 

Of  Homer  and  of  Milton  ; 
But  Newgate  Calendar  of  Crime 

I'd  lavishly  dab  gilt  on. 

The  edges  of  a  sculptor's  life 

May  fitly  marbled  be 
But  sprinkle  not,  for  fear  of  strife, 

A  Baptist  history 

Crimea's  warlike  facts  and  dates 

Of  fragrant  Russia  smell  ; 
The  subjugated  Barbary  States 

In  crushed  Morocco  d  \vclL 


HOIV  A   BIBLIOMANIAC  BINDS  HIS  BOOKS, 

But,  oh  !  that  one  I  hold  so  dear 

Should  be  arrayed  so  cheap 
Gives  me  a  qualm  ;  I  sadly  fear 

My  Lamb  must  be  half  sheep  ! 


YES? 

H.    C.    BUNNER. 

I S  it  true  then,  my  girl,  that  you  mean  it  — 
*•  The  word  spoken  yesterday  night  ? 
Does  that  hour  seem  so  sweet  now  between  it 

And  this  has  come  day's  sober  light  ? 
Have  you  woke  from  a  moment  of  rapture 

To  remember,  regret,  and  repent, 
And  to  hate,  perchance,  him  who  has  trapped  your 

Unthinking  consent? 

Who  was  he,  last  evening —  this  fellow 

Whose  audacity  lent  him  a  charm  ? 
Have  you  promised  to  wed  Pulchinello 

For  life  taking  Figaro's  arm  ? 
Will  you  have  the  Court  fool  of  the  papers, 

The  clown  in  the  journalists'  ring 
Who  earns  his  scant  bread  by  his  capers, 

To  be  your  heart's  king? 

When  we  met  quite  by  chance  at  the  theater 
And  I  saw  you  home  under  the  moon, 

I'd  no  thought,  love,  that  mischief  would  be  at  her 
Tricks  with  my  tongue  quite  so  soon  ; 


24  YES  ? 

That  I  should  forget  fate  and  fortune, 

Make  a  difference  'twixt  Sevres  and  delf — 

That  I'd  have  the  calm  nerve  to  importune 
You,  sweet,  for  yourself. 

It's  appalling,  by  Jove,  the  audacious 

Effrontery  of  that  request ! 
But  you  —  you  grew  suddenly  gracious, 

And  hid  your  sweet  face  on  my  breast. 
Why  you  did  it  I  cannot  conjecture ; 

I  surprised  you,  poor  child,  I  dare  say, 
Or  perhaps  —  does  the  moonlight  affect  your 

Head  often  that  way  ? 

You're  released !     With  some  wooer  replace  me 

More  worthy  to  be  your  life's  light ; 
From  the  tablet  of  memory  efface  me, 

If  you  don't  mean  the  Yes  of  last  night. 
But,  unless  you  are  anxious  to  see  me  a 

Wreck  of  the  pipe  and  the  cup, 
In  my  birthplace  and  graveyard,  Bohemia  — 

Love,  don't  give  me  up  ! 


SHE  WAS  A  BEAUTY. 

(RONDEL.) 
H.  C.  BUNNER. 

SHE  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 
When  Madison  was  President ; 
And  quite  coquettish  in  her  ways  — 
On  conquests  of  the  heart  intent. 

Grandpapa,  on  his  right  knee  bent, 
Wooed  her  in  stiff,  old-fashioned  phrase  — 
She  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 

When  Madison  was  President. 

And  when  your  roses  where  hers  went 
Shall  go,  my  Rose,  who  date  from  Hayes, 

I  hope  you'll  wear  her  sweet  content, 
Of  whom  tradition  lightly  says  : 
She  was  a  beauty  in  the  days 

When  Madison  was  President. 


JUST  A  LOVE-LETTER. 

H.    C.    BUNNER. 
Miss  Blank  —  at  Blank.     Jemima,  let  it  go  !" — AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

NEW- YORK,  July  2oth,  1883. 
DEAR  GIRL: 

The  town  goes  on  as  though 

It  thought  you  still  were  in  it ; 
The  gilded  cage  seems  scarce  to  know 

That  it  has  lost  its  linnet ; 
The  people  come,  the  people  pass  ; 

The  clock  keeps  on  a-ticking: 
And  through  the  basement  plots  of  grass 

Persistent  weeds  are  pricking. 

I  thought  'twould  never  come  —  the  Spring  — 

Since  you  had  left  the  City ; 
But  on  the  snow-drifts  lingering 

At  last  the  skies  took  pity, 
Then  Summer's  yellow  warmed  the  sun, 

Daily  decreasing  distance  — 
I  really  don't  know  how  'twas  done 

Without  your  kind  assistance. 
26 


JUST  A    LOVE-LETTER. 

Aunt  Van,  of  course,  still  holds  the  fort : 

I've  paid  the  call  of  duty; 
She  gave  me  one  small  glass  of  port  — 

'Twas  '34  and  fruity. 
The  furniture  was  draped  in  gloom 

Of  linen  brown  and  wrinkled ; 
I  smelt  in  spots  about  the  room 

The  pungent  camphor  sprinkled. 

I  sat  upon  the  sofa,  where 

You  sat  and  dropped  your  thimble  — 
You  know — you  said  you  didn't  care  ; 

But  I  was  nobly  nimble. 
On  hands  and  knees  I  dropped,  and  tried 

To  —  well,  tried  to  miss  it : 
You  slipped  your  hand  down  by  your  side  • 

You  knew  I  meant  to  kiss  it ! 

Aunt  Van,  I  fear  we  put  to  shame 

Propriety  and  precision  : 
But,  praised  be  Love  !  that  kiss  just  came 

Beyond  your  line  of  vision. 
Dear  maiden  aunt !   the  kiss,  more  sweet 

Because  'tis  surreptitious, 
You  never  stretched  a  hand  to  meet, 

So  dimpled,  dear,  delicious. 

I  sought  the  Park  last  Saturday ; 

I  found  the  drive  deserted ; 
The  water-trough  beside  the  way 

Sad  and  superfluous  spurted. 


JUST  A    LOVE-LETTER. 

I  stood  where  Humboldt  gaards  the  gate 
Bronze,  bumptious,  stained,  and  streaky- 

There  sat  a  sparrow  on  his  pate, 
A  sparrow  chirp  and  cheeky. 

Ten  months  ago  !   ten  months  ago  !  — 

It  seems  a  happy  second, 
Against  a  life-time  lone  and  slow, 

By  Love's  wild  time-piece  reckoned  — 
You  smiled,  by  Aunt's  protecting  side, 

Where  thick  the  drags  were  massing, 
On  one  young  man  who  didn't  ride, 

But  stood  and  watched  you  passing. 

I  haunt  Purssell's  —  to  his  amaze  — 

Not  that  I  care  to  eat  there ; 
But  for  the  dear  clandestine  days 

When  we  two  had  to  meet  there. 
Oh  !  blessed  is  that  baker's  bake, 

Past  cavil  and  past  question  ; 
I  ate  a  bun  for  your  dear  sake, 

And  Memory  helped  Digestion. 

The  Norths  are  at  their  Newport  ranch  ; 

Van  Brunt  has  gone  to  Venice  ; 
Loomis  invites  me  to  the  Branch, 

And  lures  me  with  lawn-tennis. 
O  bustling  barracks  by  the  sea ! 

O  spiles,  canals,  and  islands  ! 
Your  varied  charms  are  naught  to  me  — 

My  heart  is  in  the  Highlands  ! 


JUST  A    LOVE-LETTEK.  2g 

My  paper  trembles  in  the  breeze 

That  all  too  faintly  flutters 
Among  the  dusty  city  trees, 

And  through  my  half-closed  shutters  : 
A  northern  captive  in  the  town, 

Its  native  vigor  deadened, 
I  hope  that,  as  it  wandered  down, 

Your  dear  pale  cheek  it  reddened. 

I'll  write  no  more.     A  vis-a-vis 

In  halcyon  vacation 
Will  sure  afford  a  much  more  free 

Mode  of  communication ; 
I'm  tantalized  and  cribbed  and  checked 

In  making  love  by  letter: 
I  know  a  style  more  brief,  direct  — 

And  generally  better  ! 


REFUSED 

MADELINE   S.    BRIDGES, 

\JO,  no,"  she  said,  and  firmly  spoke  ; 

She  reasoned  with  him  like  a  mother, 
And  showed  why  he  should  be  content 
To  let  her  love  him  as  a  brother. 

She  pictured  how  the  marriage  state 
Is  one  of  trouble  and  confusion  ; 

How  love,  at  best,  is  but  a  snare, 
And  plainly  sent  for  man's  delusion. 

He  bowed  his  head  before  her  flow 
Of  eloquence,  nor  strove  to  turn  it, 

l>ut  meekly  hinted  that  he  would 
The  lesson  take,  and  try  to  learn  it. 

"  Farewell,  I  go  beyond  the  sea 

Since  I'm  refused,  no  more  I'll  press  you  ; 
Kind  Time,"  he  sighed,  "  may  heal  my  pain. 

Forgive,  forget  me,  and  God  bless  you  !  " 
30 


REFUSED. 

She  faltered,  paled,  then  tossed  her  head  : 
1 '  I  see  it  will  not  greatly  grieve  you  ; 

You  can't  have  loved  me  much,"  she  said  : 
"  And  yet,  indeed,  I  did  believe  you  !  " 

"  Besides,"  with  this  her  fair  cheek  gained 
The  color  his  was  slowly  losing  ; 

"  I  only  said  '  no  '  once  or  twice, 
And — women  don't  call  that  refusing  !  " 


EVEN  UP. 

MADELINE    S.    BRIDGES. 

u  TV/JY  love,"  he  said,  and  parted  back  her  hair 
That  tossed  in  golden  mists  above  her  eyes  ; 

"  Ask  me  no  more,  but  hear  me  while  I  swear 

You,  you  alone  I  love.     Will  that  suffice  ? 

"  I  have  had  fancies — yes,  like  other  men — 
Youth's  blood  is  swift,  and  youth's  warm  dreaming 
roves — 

My  heart  at  last  is  fixed.     Ah  !  spare  me  then 
These  questions  as  to  other,  earlier  loves  ! 

"  'Tis  not  for  you,  whose  innocent  young  heart 

Still  hears  the  music  of  your  childhood's  chimes, 
To  understand  —     -"  She  stopped  him  with  a  start, 
"  Don't  go  so  fast,  I've  been  engaged  four  times  !  " 
32 


AFTERWARD. 

MADELINE   S.    BRIDGES. 

U  VTEVER,"  he  vowed  it,  "while  life  may  last, 

Can  I  love  again.     I  will  die  unwed." 
"•  And  I,  too.,  dear,  since  our  dream  is  past, 
I  will  live  single,"  she  sobbing  said. 

A  storm  of  farewells — of  wild  good-byes — 
He  rushed  from  the  spot,  like  an  outcast  soul. 

She  hid  in  a  pillow  her  streaming  eyes, 
And  wept  with  anguish  beyond  control. 

Just  five  years  afterward,  they  two  met 
At  a  vender's  stand,  in  a  noisy  street  ; 

He  saw  the  smile  he  could  ne'er  forget, 

And  she  the  eyes  that  were  more  than  sweet. 


(  "How  well  you  look.' 
"  Oh,  Kate !  "  "Oh,  Harry  !  " 

(  ' '  How  well  you  look  ' ' 

"  I  stopped,"  he  said,   "just  to  get  a  toy 
For  my  little  girl."      "  I  wanted  a  book," 
She  softly  said,  "  for  my  little  boy." 
33 


HER  LOCzIC. 

MADELINE    S.    BRIDGES. 

T  MAY  not  kiss  you,  sweetest  ?  why, 

Since  all  the  world  to  love  is  moulded  ? 
Look  how  the  happy  butterfly 
Kisses  the  rose  and  isn't  scolded  ! 

See  how  the  stream  with  tender  lips 
Its  green  and  mossy  margin  presses, 

And  even  the  stately  willow  dips 
Her  beauty  to  the  tide's  caresses. 

I  may  c>ot  kiss  you  ?     'Tis  absurd 
To  scorn  the  truth  all  nature  traces  ! 

The  very  breeze,  upon  my  word, 

Stands  still,  and  kisses  both  our  faces. 

"  Ouite  right,"  she  said,  "  for  breezes,  John, 
For  butterflies  and  streamlets,  dearest  ; 

I  notice,  though,  they  soon  pass  on 

To  kiss — the  next  thing  that  comes  nearest !  ' 

34 


AN    IVORY   MINIATURE. 

HELEN    GRAY   CONE. 

\  A  J  HEN  State  street  homes  were  stately  still, 
When  out  of  town  was  Murray  Hill, 

Tn  late  deceased  ''old  times" 
Of  vast,  embowering  bonnet  shapes 
And  creamy-crinkled  Canton  crapes 

And  florid  annual  rhymes, 

He  owned  a  small  suburban  seat 
Where  now  you  see  a  modern  street, 

A  monochrome  of  brown  : 
The  sacl  "  brown  brown  "  of  Dante's  dreams, 
A  twilight  turned  to  stone  that  seems 

To  weight  our  city  down. 

Through  leafy  chestnuts  whitely  showed 
The  pillared  front  of  his  abode  : 

A  garden  girt  it  'round, 
Where  pungent  box  did  trim  enclose 
The  marigold  and  cabbage  rose, 

And  "  pi'ny  "  heavy  crowned. 

Yea,  whatso  sweets  the  changing  year's, 
He  most  affected.     Gone  !  but  here's 


.,6  AN  IVORY  MINIATURE. 

His  face  who  loved  him  so. 
Old  cheeks  like  sherry,  warm  and  mild; 
A  clear-hued  cheek  as  cheek  of  child  ; 

Sleek  head  a  sphere  of  snow. 

His  mouth  was  pious,  and  his  nose 
Patrician  ;  with  which  mould  there  goes 

A  disaffected  vie.v 
In  those  sublime,  be-oratored, 
Spread-eagle  days  ;  his  soul  deplored 

So  much  red-white-and-blue  ! 

In  umber  ink,  with  S's  long, 

He  left  behind  him  censure  strong 

In  stiffest  phrases  clothed  ! 
But  time  —  a  pleasant  jest  enough  !  — 
Has  turned  the  tory  leaves  to  buff, 

The  liberal  hue  he  loathed. 

Of  many  a  gentle  deed  he  made 
Brief,  simple  record.     Never  fade 

Those  everlasting  flowers 
That  spring  up  wild  by  good  men's  walks  ; 
Opinions  wither  on  their  stalks, 

And  sere  grow  Fashion's  bowers. 

Erect,  befrilled,  in  neckcloth  tall, 
His  semblance  sits,  removed  from  all 

Our  needs  and  noises  new  ; 
Released  from  all  the  rent  we  pay 
As  tenants  of  the  large  To-day, 

Cool,  in  a  back-ground  blue. 


AN  I  WRY  MINIATURE. 

And  he  beneath  a  cherub  chipped 

Plump,  squamous-pinioned,  pouting-lipped, 

Sleeps  calm  where  Trinity 
Points  fingers  dark  to  clouds  that  fleet; 
A  warning,  seen  from  surging  street, 

A  welcome  seen  from  sea. 

There  fall,  ghosts  glorified  of  tears 
Shed  for  the  dead  in  buried  years, 

The  silver  notes  of  chimes; 
And  there,  with  not  unreverent  hand 
Though  light,  I  lay  this  "greene  garland," 

This  woven  wreath  of  rhymes. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CASSANDRA  BROWN. 

HELEN   GRAY  CONE. 

'  I  CHOUGH  I  met  her  in  the  summer,  when  one's  heart 

lies  round  at  ease, 
As  it  were  in  tennis  costume,  and  a  man's  not  hard  to 

please, 

Yet  I  think  that  any  season  to  have  met  her  was  to  love, 
While  her  tones,  unspoiled,  unstudied,  had  the  softness 

of  the  dove. 

At  request  she  read  us  poems  in  a  nook  among  the  pines, 
And  her  artless  voice  lent  music  to  the  least  melodious 

lines ; 
Though  she  lowered  her  shadowing  lashes,  in  an  earnest 

reader's  wise, 
Yet  we  caught  blue  gracious  glimpses  of  the  heavens 

which  were  her  eyes. 

As  in  paradise  I  listened  —  ah,  I  did  not  understand 
That  a   little  cloud,  no  larger  than  the  average  human 

hand, 

Might,  as  stated  oft  in  fiction,  spread  into  a  sable  pall, 
When  she  said   that  she  should  study  Elocution  in  the 

fall! 

38 


THE  BALLAD   OF  CASSANDRA    BROWN.  w 

i  admit  her  earliest  efforts  were  not  in  the  Ercles  vein ; 
She  began  with,  "  Lit-tle  Maaybel,  with  her  faayce  against 

the  payne 
And  the  beacon-light  a-t-r-r-remble" — which,  although  it 

made  me  wince, 
Is  a  thing  of  cheerful  nature  to  the  things  she's  rendered 


Having  heard  the  Soulful  Quiver,  she  acquired  the  Melt- 
ing Mo-o-an, 

And  the  way  she  gave  '*  Young  Grayhead"  would  have 
liquefied  a  stone. 

Then  the  Sanguinary  Tragic  did  her  energies  employ, 

And  she  tore  my  taste  to  tatters  when  she  slew  "  The 
Polish  Boy." 

It's  not  pleasant  for  a  fellow  when  the  jewel  of  his  soul 
Wades  through  slaughter  on  the  carpet,  while  her  orbs 

in  frenzy  roll ; 
What  was    I  that  I    should  murmur  ?    Yet  it  gave   me 

grievous  pain 
That  she  rose  in  social  gatherings,  and  Searched  among 

the  Slain. 

I  was  forced  to  look  upon  her  in  my  desperation  dumb, 
Knowing  well  that  when  her  awful  opportunity  was  come 
She  would  give  us  battle,  murder,  sudden  death  at  very 

least, 
As  a  skeleton  of  warning,  and  a  blight  upon  the  feast. 


40          THE  BALLAD   OF  CASSANDRA    BROWN. 

Once,   ah !  once  I  fell  a-clreaming ;    some  one  played  a 

polonaise 

I  associated  strongly  with  those  happier  August  days  ; 
And  I  mused,  "I'll  speak  this  evening,"  recent   pangs 

forgotten  quite  — 
Sudden  shrilled  a  scream  of  anguish  :    "  Cur'fow  SHALL 

not  ring  to-night !  " 

Ah,  that  sound  was  as  a  curfew,  quenching  rosy,  warm 

romance  — 
Were  it  safe  to  wed  a  woman  one  so  oft  would  wish  in 

France  ? 
Oh,  as  she  "cul-limbed"  that  ladder,  swift  my  mounting 

hope  came  down, 
I  am  still  a  single  cynic ;  she  is  still  Cassandra  Brown  ! 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  THE  ROSE. 

BESSIE    CHANDLER. 

He. 

1 1 E  gave  me  a  rose  at  the  ball  to-night, 
And  I  —  I'm  a  fool,  I  suppose, 
For  my  heart  beat  high  with  a  vague  delight. 
Had  she  given  me  more  than  the  rose? 

I  thought  that  she  had  for  a  little  while 

Till  I  saw  her,  fairest  of  dancers, 
Give  another  rose  with  the  same  sweet  smile 

To  another  man  in  the  Lancers. 

Well,  roses  are  plenty,  and  smiles  not  rare  — 

It  is  really  rather  audacious 
To  grumble  because  my  lady  fair 

Is  to  other  men  kind  and  gracious. 

Yet  who  can  govern  his  wayward  dreams  ? 

And  my  dream  so  precious  and  bright 
Now  foolish,  broken,  and  worthless  seems 

As  it  fades  with  her  rose  to-night ! 

She. 
I  gave  him  a  rose  at  the  ball  to-night, 

A  deep-red  rose,  with  a  fragrance  dim, 
And  the  warm  blood  rushed  to  my  cheeks  with  fright 

I  could  not,  dared  not,  look  at  him. 


THE  MESSAGE    OF  THE  ROSE. 

For  the  depths  of  my  soul  he  seemed  to  scan ; 

His  earnest  look  I  could  not  bear : 
So  I  gave  a  rose  to  another  man 

Any  one  else  —  I  did  not  care. 

And  yet,  spite  of  all,  he  has  read,  I  know, 
My  message  —  he  could  not  have  missed  it ; 

For  his  rose  I  held  to  my  bosom,  so, 
And  then  to  my  lips  while  I  kissed  it. 


TO    MRS.    CARLYLE. 

BESSIE   CHANDLER. 

I  HAVE  read  your  glorious  letters, 
Where  you  threw  aside  all  fetters, 
Spoke  your  thoughts  and  mind  out  freely, 

In  your  own  delightful  style ; 
And  I  fear  my  state's  alarming, 
For  these  pages  are  so  charming 
That  my  heart  I  lay  before  you, — 

Take  it,  Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 

And  I  sit  here,  thinking,  thinking 
How  your  life  was  one  long  winking 
At  poor  Thomas'  faults  and  failings 
And  his  undue  share  of  bile. 
Won't  you  own,  dear,  just  between  us, 
That  this  living  with  a  genius 
Isn't  after  all  so  pleasant, — 

Is  it,  Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle? 

There  was  nothing  so  demeaning  , 

In  those  frequent  times  of  cleaning, 

When  you  scoured  and  scrubbed  and  hammered 
In  such  true  housewifely  style, 

43 


TO  MRS.    CARLYLE. 

And  those  charming  teas  and  dinners, 
Graced  by  clever  saints  and  sin-ners, 
Make  me  long  to  have  been  present 

With  you,  Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 

How  you  fought  with  dogs  and  chickens, 
Playing  children,  and  the  dickens 

Knows  what  else  ;  you  stilled  all  racket 

That  might  Thomas'  sleep  beguile. 
How  you  wrestled  with  the  taxes, 
How  you  ground  T.  Carlyle's  axes, 
Making  him  the  more  dependent 

On  you,  Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 

Through  it  all  from  every  quarter 
Gleams,  like  sunshine  on  the  water, 
Your  quick  sense  of  fun  and  humor 

And  your  bright,  bewitching  smile  : 
And  I  own  I  fairly  revel 
In  the  way  that  you  say  "  devil," — 
'Tis  so  terse,  so  very  vigorous, 

So  like  Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 

All  the  time,  say,  were  you  missing 
Just  a  little  love  and  kissing  — 
Silly  things  that  help  to  lighten 

Many  a  weary,  dreary  while  ? 
Not  a  word  you  say  to  show  it, — 
We  may  guess,  but  never  know  it, — 
You  went  quietly  on  without  it, 

Loyal  Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle. 


THE    STORK'S    JEREMIAD. 

BESSIE   CHANDLER. 

"f~\  NE-LEGGED  stork,  thou  standest  sad  an-d  lonely, 
^^   A  tear,  methinks,  I  notice  in  thine  eye. 
Oh,  tell  to  me  —  yes,  whisper  to  me  only  — 
What  is  the  sorrow  that  I  think  I  spy  ?  " 

And  lo  !  from  out  the  meshes  of  the  tidy 

There  came  a  feeble,  mournful  sort  of  squeak. 

And,  while  amazed  I  opened  my  eyes  wide,  he 
Opened  his  mouth,  and  thus  began  to  speak : 

"  I  am  so  very  tired  of  being  artistic ; 

My  life  is  one  long,  patient,  painful  ache  ; 
I  am  so  wearied  of  these  weird  and  mystic 
Positions  which  they  force  my  form  to  take. 

"In  crewels,  silks,  in  worsted  and  in  cotton, 

Now  black,  now  white,  now  grave,  now  madly  gay, 
They've  Worked  me  ;  and  one  wrong  is  unforgotten 
They've  done  me  most  and  worst  in  applique. 

"  Sometimes  they  plant  me  'mid  some  rushes  speary 

In  attitudes  no  well-bred  stork  would  take, 
Holding  one  leg  up,  till  I  get  so  weary 

I  sometimes  think  my  poor  strained  back  will  break. 


46  THE  STORK'S  JEREMIAD. 

"  They've  worked  me  standing,  running,  sleeping,  flying 

Sometimes  I'm  gazing  at  a  crewel  sun. 
They've  worked  me  every  way,  I  think,  but  dying ; 
And  oh  !   I  wish  they'd  do  that  and  be  done  ! 

"  I  could  forgive  them  all  this  bitter  wronging 

If  they  would  grant  one  favor,  which  I  beg, 
Would  gratify  but  once  my  soul's  deep  longing, 
Just  to  put  down  my  cramped  and  unused  leg. 

"  Know  you  of  any  one  with  sorrows  greater  ? 
A  creature  with  a  life  that's  more  forlorn  ? 
Hounded  forever  by  the  Decorator, 

I  wish,  I  wish,  I  never  had  been  born !  " 

A  silence  fell ;   I  gazed ;  he  had  subsided. 

I  listened  vainly  ;  all  was  dumb  and  still 
Upon  the  tidy  where  the  stork  resided, 

With  upheld  leg  and  red  and  open  bill. 


FOLLY. 

BALLARD   CRAIG. 

T)ALMS  in  shadow — a  drooping  head, 

Crowned  by  a  Folly's  cap  of  fed  ; 
Violet  eyes,  'twixt  white  lids  pressed, 
Fingers  fashioned  to  be  caressed, 
A  throat  that  gleams,  in  the  shadows — white, 
Lips  that  tremble  and  half  invite — 
And  I  love  her — tenderly — madly  !     Yet — 
She  loves  not  me — but  to  coquette  ! 
And  she'd  probably  tremble  and  droop  and  pose 
For  any  other  fellows  she  knows  ! 

The  shadow  of  palms — the  lamps  turned  low, 

A  strain  of  music — a  fountain's  flow  ; 

Tender  eyes  of  darkest  brown, 

Before  whose  passion  my  eyes  look  down, 

Fingers  closing  over  my  own, 

With  a  touch  that  straight  to  my  heart  has  flown  ; 

And  1  love  him — love  him  dearly  !     Yet — 

He's  the  most  outrageous  flirt  in  our  set  ! 

And  he  looks  as  tenderly— I  suppose, 

In  the  eyes  of  every  girl  he  knows  ! 

47 


THE  FAIR  COPY  HOLDER. 

CHARLES    H.    GRAND  ALL. 

""ITON  window  frames  her  like  a  saint 

Within  some  old  cathedral  rare  ; 
Perhaps  she  is  not  quite  so  quaint, 
And  yet  I  think  her  full  as  fair  ! 

All  day  she  scans  the  written  lines, 

Until  the  last  dull  proof  is  ended, 
Calling  the  various  words  arid  signs, 

By  which  each  error  may  bo  mended. 

An  interceding  angel,  she, 

'Twixt  printing  press  and  author's  pen  ; 
Perhaps  she'd  find  some  faults  in  me  ! 

Say,  maiden,  can  you  not  read  men  ? 

Forgive  me,  gentle  girl,  but  while 

You  bravely  work,  I've  been  reflecting 

That  somewhere  in  this  world  of  guile 

There's  some  one's  life  needs  your  correcting. 

Methinks  'tis  time  you  tried  this  art, 

Which  makes  the  world's  wide  page  read  better 
For  love  needs  proving,  heart  with  heart, 

As  well  as  type  with  written  letter. 
48 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  HICKORY  TREE. 

CHARLES    H.    CRANDALL. 
I. 

A    SONG  for  the  hickory  tree  ! 
'       While  the  wind  is  blowing  free, 

And  the  golden  leaves  and  silver  nuts 
Drop  down  for  you  and  me  ! 

As  we  pull  the  nuggets  out 

From  their  crypts  with  merry  shout, 

The  air  is  filled  with  perfume  distilled 
From  the  spices  of  the  South. 

A  health  for  the  hickory  tree  ! — 
Rough-coated,  hale  and  free — 

For  its  flesh  is  white  and  its  heart  is  bright, 
And  it  laughs  with  you  and  me  ! 

ii  : 

The  squirrel  says  with  a  wink, 
"I'd  sing  a  song,  I  think, 

To  the  girl  who  stands  with  snow-white  hands 
And  eyes  that  flash  and  blink. 

49 


go  A  SONG  FOR  THE  HICKORY  TREE. 

"Whose  flesh  is  white  and  strong, 
Whose  heart  is  free  from  wrong, 

And  sound  and  sweet  as  the  nut  at  her  feet, 
And  better  than  any  song." 

So,  take  the  song,  my  queen, 
For  a  kiss  and  a  philopene  ! 

'Mid  the  golden  leaves  and  silver  nuts, 
I  kneel  on  the  carpet  green. 


IN    SWITZERLAND. 

W.   A.  CROFFUT. 

A  T  Chamouny  I  woke  one  morn, 
**   Hearing  afar  an  Alpine  horn 

Upon  some  glacier  to  the  north, 
And  thought,  although  it  rained  forlorn, 
To  saunter  forth. 

There,  in  the  hall,  outside  a  door, 
Waiting  their  owners,  on  the  floor 

I  saw  two  shiny  pairs  of  shoes, 
One  pair  was  eights  —  or,  may  be,  more  ; 

The  other,  twos. 

I  wondered  who  those  gaiters  wore 
That  such  a  look  of  courage  bore : 

They  seemed  alert  and  battle-scarred, 
And  all  their  heels  were  wounded  sore 

On  mountain  shard. 

The  lofty  insteps  spurned  the  ground 
As  if  up  high  Olympus  bound  ; 

The  tireless  soles  were  worn  away ; 
The  smooth  and  taper  toes  were  round 

And  retrousse. 


52  IN  SWITZERLAND. 

Sudden  my  envious  thought  essayed 
To  count  the  conquest  they  had  made, 

And  all  their  pilgrimages  view ; 
O'er  glen  and  glacier,  gorge  and  glade, 

My  fancy  flew. 

I  saw  them  thread  the  Brunig  Pass ; 
I  saw  them  scale  the  Mer  de  Glace, 

And  Riffleberg,  beyond  Zermatt ; 
I  saw  them  mount  the  mighty  mass 

Of  Corner  Grat. 

I  saw  them  climb  Bernina's  height; 
I  saw  them  bathe  in  Rosa's  light 

And  linger  by  the  Giessbach  Fall; 
I  saw  them  grope  in  Gondo's  night 

And  Miinster  Thai ; 

» 

I  saw  them  find  the  Jungfrau's  head 
And  leap  the  Grimsel  gorges  dread, 

And  bound  o'er  Col  de  Collon's  ice; 
And  on  Belle  Tola's  summit  tread 

The  edelweiss. 

The  vision  shamed  my  listless  mood, 
Banished  my  inert  lassitude, 

And  fired  me  with  intent  sublime; 
I  vowed  when  sunshine  came  I  would 

Go  forth  and  climb. 


IN  SWITZERLAND.  53 


With  new  ambition  I  arose, 

Blessed  the  foot-gear  from  heels  to  toes 

(One  pair  was  eights  ;  the  other,  twos), 
And  thanked  the  owners  brave  of  those 

Heroic  shoes. 


IN    ARCADIA. 

R.  T.  W.  DUKE,  JR. 

ECAUSE  I  choose  to  keep  my  seat, 
Nor  join  the  giddy  dancers'  whirl, 
I  pray  you,  do  not  laugh,  my  girl, 
Nor  ask  me  why  I  find  it  sweet 

In  my  old  age  to  watch  your  glee, — 
I,  too,  have  been  in  Arcady. 

And  though  full  well  I  know  I  seem 
Quite  out  of  place  in  scenes  like  this, 
You  can't  imagine  how  much  bliss 

It  gives  me  just  to  sit  and  dream, 
As  you  flit  by  me  gracefully, 
How  I,  too,  dwelt  in  Arcady. 

For,  sweetheart,  in  your  merry  eyes 
A  vanished  summer  buds  and  blows, 
And  with  the  same  bright  cheeks  of  rose 

I  see  your  mother's  image  rise, 
And,  o'er  a  long  and  weary  track, 
My  buried  boyhood  wanders  back. 

And  as  with  tear-dimmed  eyes  I  cast 

On  your  sweet  form  my  swimming  glance, 
I  think  your  mother  used  to  dance 
4  M 


IN  ARCADIA.  55 

Just  as  you  do,  in  that  dead  past 
Long  years  ago  —  yes,  fifty-three  — 
When  I,  too,  dwelt  in  Arcady. 

And  in  the  music's  laughing  notes 

I  seem  to  hear  old  voices  ring 

That  have  been  hushed,  ah,  many  a  spring ; 
And  round  about  me  faintly  floats 

The  echo  of  a  melody 

I  used  to  hear  in  Arcady. 

And  yonder  youth,— nay,  do  not  blush, — 

The  boy's  his  father  o'er  again ; 

And  hark  ye,  miss  !   I  was  not  plain 
When  at  his  age  —  what !  must  I  hush  ? 

He's  coming  this  way  ?     Yes,  I  see, — 

You  two  yet  dwell  in  Arcady. 


AN  OLD  BACHELOR  TO  AN  OLD  MAID. 

MARGARET   EYTINGE. 

TN  early  spring  the  song-birds  sing, 

This  is  Love's  season.     Soon  shall  spread 

A  carpet  green  before  his  feet, 
And  crocuses  and  snowdrops  bring 
A  wreath  to  crown  his  lovely  head. 

This  is  Love's  season, —  sweet,  sweet,  sweet ! 

Then,  youths  and  maidens,  while  ye  may, 
Your  sweethearts  choose  before  the  light 

That  shines  on  springtime  shall  retreat. 
For,  once  that  light  has  passed,  away, 
Life  knows  again  no  hours  so  bright, 

So  full  of  gladness, —  sweet,  sweet,  sweet. 

Now,  I. believe  the  birds  are  wrong, — 
That  is,  not  altogether  right, — 

Love  may  with  partial  eyes  behold 
The  spring,  but  yet,  the  whole  year  long 
He  smiles  with  tenderest  delight 

On  all  true  lovers,  young  and  old. 

And  though  your  early  summer's  fled, 
And  though  my  autumn's  almost  here, 

The  lilies,  blessed  with  love  divine, 
Shall  take  the  place  of  roses  dead. 
Will  you  consent  to  pluck  them,  dear, 

With  me,  and  be  my  valentine  ? 


RONDEL, 

ANNA    MARIA    FAY. 

TU HEN  love  is  in  her  eyes 

What  need  of  spring  for  me 
A  brighter  emerald  lies 
On  hill  and  vale  and  lea 

The  azure  of  the  skies 

Holds  naught  so  sweet  to  me  ; 
When  love  is  in  her  eyes 

What  need  of  spring  for  mc  ? 

Her  bloom  the  rose  outvies, 

The  lily  dares  no  plea, 
The  violet's  glory  dies, 

No  flower  so  sweet  can  be  ; 
When  love  is  in  her  eyes 

What  need  of  spring  for  mu  ? 
57 


BALLADE    OF    THE    ROSE. 

H.  C.  FAULKNER. 

>"T~VELL  me,  red  rose,  what  you  were  bid,— 
You  know  her  secret ;  you  she  wore 

Shy,  nestling  in  her  hair,  half  hid 
By  jealous  golden  curls  a  score, 
As  waves  half  timid  kiss  the  shore, 

Then  tremble  were  they  bold  or  no ; 
I  kiss  you,  blushing  token,  for 

She  loves  me, —  rose,  you  tell  me  so. 

I  softly  raise  your  scented  lid, 

Where,  sleeping  since  some  dawn  of  yore, 
A  crystal  dewdrop  lies  amid 

The  downy  Crimson  of  your  core. 

I  am  not  versed  in  Cupid's  lore ; 
But  so  I  think  her  blushing  glow 

Soft  guards  the  love  I  sue  her  for. 
She  loves  me, —  rose,  you  tell  me  so, 
58 


BALLADE   OF   THE  ROSE. 

And  when  her  hand,  in  dainty  kid, 

Gave  you  to  me,  as  ne'er  before 
It  fluttered,  tried  itself  to  rid 

Of  fetters  that  it  never  wore, 

Why  trembled  she  ?     My  eyes  would  pour 
My  love  in  hers, —  why  did  she  so  ? 

Was  it  because  she  hates  me,  or  — 
She  loves  me, —  rose,  you  tell  me  so.    * 

L'ENVOY. 

Rose,  come  you  not  ambassador 

From  Cupid's  court,  to  let  me  know 

Love  yields  at  last  ?     Speak,  I  implore  ! 
She  loves  me, —  rose,  you  tell  me  so. 


BETWEEN    THE    LINES. 

H.  C.  FAULKNER. 

"  CT\EAR  MR.  BROWN,"—  I  know  she  meant 
"  Dear  Jack  "  ;  that  D  with  sentiment 
Is  overweighted. 

Shy  little  love  !  she  did  not  dare  ; 
That  flutter  in  the  M  shows  where 
She  hesitated. 

The  darling  girl !   what  loving  heed 
She  gives  the  strokes  ;  it  does  not  need 

Great  penetration 

To  note  the  lingering,  trusting  touch ; 
As  if  to  write  to  me  were  such 

A  consolation. 

"  The  flowers  came  ;  so  kind  of  you. 
A  thousand  tJianks  !  "     Oh,  fie!  Miss  Prue, 

The  line  betrays  you. 
You  know  just  there  you  sent  a  kiss  ; 
You  meant  that  blot  to  tell  me  this, 

And  it  obeys  you. 


;  They  gave  me  such  a  happy  day. 
I  love  them  so.     She  meant  to  say, 
"  Because  you  sent  them." 


BETWEEN  THE  LINES. 

But  then,  you  see,  the  page  is  small ; 
She  wrote  in  haste  —  the  words  —  and  all, — 
I  know  she  meant  them. 

"  At  night  I  kept  them  near  me,  too, 
And  dreamt  of  them"  she  wrote,  "  and  you," 

But  would  erase  it. 
Did  she  but  have  one  tender  thought 
That  perished  with  the  blush  it  brought, 

My  love  would  trace  it. 

"  This  morning  all  the  buds  have  bloton." 
That  flourish  surely  is  "  Your  own ;  " 

'Tis  written  queerly ; 
She  meant  it  so.     Ah,  useless  task 
To  hide  your  love  'neath  such  a  mask 

As  that  "  Sincerely." 

"  Prudence."     Those  tender  words  confess 
As  much  to  me  as  a  caress  ; 

And,  Prue,  you  know  it. 
But  then,  to  tease  me,  you  must  add 
Your  other  name,  although  you  had 

Scarce  space  to  do  it. 

A  dash  prolonged  across  the  sheet 
To  close  the  note  ?  —  the  little  cheat, — 

No.     When  she  penned  it 
She  meant  its  quavering  length  to  say 
That  she  could  write  to  me  for  aye, 

And  never  end  it. 


62  BETWEEN   THE. LINES. 

Prue  !   Love  is  like  the  flame  that  glows 
Unseen  till,  lightly  fanned,  it  grows 

Too  fierce  to  quell  it. 
And  mine  !   Ah,  mine  is  unconfessed  ; 
But  now, —  that  dash  and  all  the  rest, — 

I'll  have  to  tell  it. 


BALLADE    OF    THE    BALCONY. 

H.  C.  FAULKNER. 

He. 

/CHEEKS  that  are  shirato  white, 
^^  Eyes  that  are  deep  nankin  blue, 
Heart  that  I  fear  me  is  quite 
Hardened  as  porcelain  too. 

She. 

Antique,  of  course,  and  a  fright ! 
Porcelain  never  is  new. 

He. 

I  know  this  passionless  sprite, 
Sweet  Miss  Thalia ;  do  you  ? 

Fickle  as  May 

She. 

And  as  bright  ? 
He. 

Dances  each  night  until  two, 
Flirts  on  the  lake  by  moonlight. 

She. 

Some  one  must  row  the  canoe. 
Ah,  lovely  empress  of  night ! 
Maidens  must  worship  thee 


BALLADE   OF   THE   BALCONT. 

He. 

Pooh  ! 

I  hardly  think  this  is  right, 
Sweet  Miss  Thalia ',   do  you  ? 

She. 

But,  if  it  give  her  delight  ? 
Lovers  are  sadly  too  few. 

He. 

Yet,  if  she  loved  a  poor  wight, 
One,  I  should  fancy,  would  do, 

She. 

Yes ;  but  is  not  the  bold  knight 
Sometimes  a  laggard  to  woo  ? 

He. 

Think  you  she  loves  him  a  mite, 
Sweet  Miss  Thalia;  do  you? 

L'ENVOY. 

She. 
Pray,  sir  !  your  arms  are  too  tight .' 

He, 
Knights  kissed  their  lady-loves  true. 

She. 
Then  I  think  —  mayhap  —  you  —  might  — 

He. 
Sweet  Miss  Thalia,  do  you  ? 


THE    GAME    OF    CHESS. 

DAVID    S.    FOSTER. 

'*"¥"? WAS  stinging,  blustering,  winter  weather; 

*     How  well  I  recollect  the  night ! 
When  Kate  and  I  played  chess  together. 

Her  beauty  in  the  hearth-fire's  light 
Seemed  more  Madonna-like  and  rosy  ; 
The  hours  were  swift,  the  room  was  cozy, 

The  windows  frosted  silvery  white. 

Even  now  I  see  that  grave  face  resting 
Upon  the  hand,  so  white  and  small ; 

I  see  that  mystic  grace,  suggesting 
A  painter's  dream  ;   I  oft  recall 

Her  glance,  now  anxious,  gay,  or  tender ; 

The  girlish  form,  complete  yet  slender, 
In  silhouette  against  the  wall. 

It  was  not  strange  that  I  was  mated, 
For  'twas  my  fondly  cherished  aim. 

I  longed  to  speak,  but  I  was  fated ; 
The  rightful  opening  never  came. 

I  pawned  my  heart  for  her  sweet  favor, 

With  every  look  some  vantage  gave  her, 
An  so,  alas  !   I  lost  the  game. 
6s 


66  THE   GAME  OF  CHESS. 

Since  then,  by  fortune,  love,  forsaken, 
Through  checkered  years  I've  passed  and  seen 

My  castles  fall,  my  pawns  all  taken, 

My  spotless  knights  prove  traitors  mean  ; 

And  worn  with  many  a  check,  I  wander 

Like  the  poor  vanquished  king,  and  ponder 
With  sadness  on  my  long-lost  queen. 


AFTER   THE   BALL. 

MINNIE   GILMORE. 

H,  little  glove,  do  I  but  dream  I  hold  thee, 
So  warm,  so  sweet,  and  tawny  as  her  hair  ? 
Nay !  from  her  hand  I  dared  unfold  thee, 
As  we  went  down  the  stair. 

She  said  no  word ;  she  did  not  praise  nor  blame  me ; 

She  is  so  proud,  so  proud  and  cold  and  fair  ! 
Ah  !  dear  my  love,  thy  silence  did  not  shame  me 

As  we  went  down  the  stair. 

Thy  dark  eyes  flashed ;  thy  regal  robes  arrayed  thee 
In  queenly  grace,  and  pride  beyond  compare ; 

But  on  thy  cheek  a  sudden  red  betrayed  thee, 
As  we  went  down  the  stair. 

O  lady  mine,  some  near  night  will  I  prove  thee  ! 

By  this  soft  glove  I  know  that  I  may  dare 
Take  thy  white  hand  and  whisper,  "Sweet,  I  love  thee," 

As  we  go  down  the  stair. 


A  LOST  FRIEND, 

MINNIE   GILMORE. 

\/"OUR  soul,  that  for  years  I  have  counted 

An  open  book,  read  to  the  end, 
Is  lettered  all  strange,  since  a  lover 
Looks  out  from  the  eyes  of  a  friend. 

The  white  pages  now  are  turned  rosy, 
The  chapters  are  numbered  anew, 

The  old  plot  is  lost,  and  the  hero 

Who,  up  to  last  night,  was  just  you  — 

Just  dear  old  friend  Jack,  and  no  other, 

To-night  is  a  stranger,  I  vow  ; 
And  though  I  am  fain  to  be  gracious, 

The  truth  is,  I  scarcely  know  how. 

Where  now  is  your  celibate  gospel  ? 

What  now  of  Love's  follies  and  faults  ? 
Refuted  last  night  when  your  lips,  sir, 

Chasseed  o'er  my  cheek  in  the  waltz. 

Life-faith  we  swore,  friendly  fraternal 
To  keep  it  —  ah  me  !  half  a  year 


A    LOST  FRIEND. 

And  I,  Chloris  now  to  your  Strephon, 
Accept  my  new  role  with  a  tear, — 

A  tear  for  the  dear  old  days  ended, 
A  tear  for  the  friend  lost  for  aye, 

For  careless  old  comradeship  fleeing 
Forever  before  Love  to-day. 

Dear,  read  me  aright !  Though  words  falter, 
And  lips  prove  but  dumb,  your  heart  hears  ; 

The  Jack  of  to-day  I  love  truly, 
Yet  oh  for  the  Jack  of  old  years  ! 


RONDEAUX    OF    CITIES. 

ROBERT  GRANT. 
I. 

RONDEAU  A  LA  BOSTON. 

A    CULTURED  mind  !     Before  I  speak 
**•  The  words,  sweet  maid,  to  tinge  thy  cheek 
With  blushes  of  the  nodding  rose 
That  on  thy  breast  in  beauty  blows, 
I  prithee  satisfy  my  freak. 

Canst  thou  read  Latin  and  eke  Greek? 
Dost  thou  for  knowledge  pine  and  peek  ? 
Hast  thou,  in  short,  as  I  suppose, 

A  cultured  mind  ? 

Some  men  require  a  maiden  meek 
Enough  to  eat  at  need  the  leek  ; 

Some  lovers  crave  a  classic  nose, 

A  liquid  eye,  or  faultless  pose; 
I  none  of  these.     I  only  seek 

A  cultured  mind. 


7  • 


II. 

RONDEAU  A  LA  PHILADELPHIA. 

A  PEDIGREE!  Ah,  lovely  jade  ! 

Whose  tresses  mock  the  raven's  shade, 
Before  I  free  this  aching  breast 
I  want  to  set  my  mind  at  rest ; 

'Tis  best  to  call  a  spade  a  spade. 

What  was  thy  father  ere  he  made 
His  fortune  ?    Was  he  smeared  with  trade, 
Or  does  he  boast  an  ancient  crest  — 
A  pedigree  ? 

Brains  and  bright  eyes  are  over-weighed  ; 
For  wits  grow  dull  and  beauties  fade  ; 

And  riches,  though  a  welcome  guest, 

Oft  jar  the  matrimonial  nest. 
I  kiss  her  lips  who  holds  displayed 
A  pedigree. 


III. 

RONDEAU  A  LA  BALTIMORE. 

A  PRETTY  face  !     O  maid  divine, 
Whose  vowels  flow  as  soft  as  wine, 
Before  I  say  upon  the  rack 
The  words  I  never  can  take  back, 
A  moment  meet  my  glance  with  thine. 

Say,  art  thou  fair  ?     Is  the  incline 
Of  that  sweet  nose  an  aquiline  ? 
Hast  thou,  despite  unkind  attack, 
A  pretty  face  ? 

Some  sigh  for  wisdom.     Three,  not  nine, 
The  graces  were.     I  won't  repine 
For  want  of  pedigree,  or  lack 
Of  gold  to  banish  Care  the  black, 
If  I  can  call  forever  mine 

A  pretty  face. 


IV. 

RONDEAU  A  LA  NEW- YORK. 

A  POT  of  gold  !     O  mistress  fair, 
With  eyes  of  brown  that  pass  compare, 
Ere  I  on  bended  knee  express 
The  love  which  you  already  guess, 
I  fain  would  ask  a  small  affair. 

Hast  thou,  my  dear,  an  ample  share 
Of  this  world's  goods  ?     Will  thy  proud  pure 
Disgorge,  to  gild  our  blessedness, 
A  pot  of  gold  ? 

Some  swains  for  mental  graces  care ; 
Some  fall  a  prey  to  golden  hair  ; 

I  am  not  blind,  I  will  confess, 

To  intellect  or  comeliness  ; 
Still  let  these  go  beside,  ma  cheret 
A  pot  of  gold. 


PRIVATE   THEATRICALS. 

LOUISE   IMOGENE   GUINEY. 

V/"OU  were  a  haughty  beauty,  Polly, 

(That  was  in  the  play,) 
I  was  the  lover  melancholy, 

(That  was  in  the  play.) 
And  when  your  fan  and  you  receded, 
And  all  my  passion  lay  unheeded, 
If  still  with  tenderer  words  I  pleaded, 

That  was  in  the  play  ! 

I  met  my  rival  at  the  gateway, 

(That  was  in  the  play,) 
And  so  we  fought  a  duel  straightway, 

(That  was  in  the  play. ) 
But  when  Jack  hurt  my  arm  unduly, 
And  you  rushed  over,  softened  newly, 
And  kissed  me,  Polly !   truly,  truly, 

Was  that  in  the  play  ? 


LO  AND   LU. 

LOUISE   IMOGENE   GUINEY. 

\A7HEN  we  began  this  never-ended, 

Kind  companionship, 
Childish  greetings  lit  the  splendid 

Laughter  at  the  lip ; 
You  were  ten  and  I  eleven ; 

Henceforth,  as  we  knew, 
Was  all  mischief  under  heaven 

Set  down  to  Lo  and  Lu. 

Long  we  fought  and  cooed  together, 

Held  an  equal  reign, 
Snowballs  could  we  fire  and  gather, 

Twine  a  clover  chain ; 
Sing  in  G  an  A  flat  chorus 

'  Mid  the  tuneful  crew  — 
No  harmonious  angels  o'er  us 

Taught  us,  Lo  or  Lu. 

Pleasant  studious  times  have  seen  us 

Arm  in  arm  of  yore, 
Learned  books,  well  thumbed  between  us, 

Spread  along  the  floor ; 

75 


76  LO  AND  LU. 


Perched  in  pine  tops,  sunk  in  barley, 
Rogues  where  rogues  were  few, 

Right  or  wrong  in  deed  or  parley, 
Comrades,  Lo  and  Lu. 

Which  could  leap  where  banks  were  wider, 

Mock  the  cat-bird's  call? 
Which  preside  and  pop  the  cider 

At  a  festival  ? 
Who  became  the  finer  stoic, 

Stabbing  trouble  through,    - 
Thrilled  to  hear  of  things  heroic 

Oftener,  Lo  or  Lu  ? 

Earliest,  blithest!   then  and  ever 

Mirror  of  my  heart ! 
Grow  we  old  and  wise  and  clever 

Now,  so  far  apart ; 
Still  as  tender  as  a  mother's 

Floats  our  prayer  for  two; 
Neither  yet  can  spare  the  other's 

"  God  bless  —  Lo  and  Lu  !  " 


BALLADE   OF  THE   SHEPHERDESS. 

(IRREGULAR.) 
RUTH    HALL. 

I  N  the  dazzling  blue  and  white  of  the  tiles 

*    As  a  mirror  my  dear  love's  face  I  spy ; 

From  the  mantel  tree  she  looks  down  and  smiles, 

While  my  heart  goes  up  in  an  answering  sigh. 

It's  I  am  so  lowly  and  she  is  so  high, 
My  bashful  hope  how  could  I  confess, 

But  an  English  pug,  and  yet  dare  to  cry 
For  the  love  of  a  china  shepherdess  ? 

She  leans  on  the  crook  —  oh,  her  winning  wiles  ! 

From  my  mistress'  lap,  where  I  idly  lie, 
I  watch,  and  I  wish  there  were  miles  and  miles 

(While  my  heart  goes  up  in  an  answering  sigh) 

'Tvvixt  her  and  that  boy  with  the  butterfly. 
So  pretty  is  he  in  his  peasant  dress, 

And  so  plain  beside  him,  how  should  I  try 
For  the  love  of  a  china  shepherdess  ? 


BALLADE    OF  THE  SHEPHERDESS. 

There's  an  Angora  cat  my  bark  reviles, 

Did  I  love,  mayhap  she  would  make  reply; 

But  no  !   to  the  mantel  tree's  dim  defiles 

(While  my  heart  goes  up  in  an  answering  sigh) 
All  possible  bliss  must  pass  me  by, 

And  no  one  shall  ever  the  secret  guess  : 
An  unlucky  dog  is  in  misery 

For  love  of  a  china  shepherdess. 

L'ENVOY. 

Ah,  many  a  wight  of  more  wit  than  I 

Is  dying  to  live  and  living  to  die  — 

Would  give  up  his  heart  and  his  soul  —  no  less 

For  love  of  a  china  shepherdess  ! 


WINTER'S   WOOING. 

RUTH    HALL. 

EAR  heart  of  mine,  true  heart  of  mine, 
'Tis  time  o'  year  for  valentine ; 
Grim  Winter  cloth  his  silence  break 
Now,  love  to  make,  for  April's  sake  ; 
Wild  flow'rs  entreat  her  face  to  greet 
When  she  shall  come  and  make  all  sweet 
Before  the  light  touch  of  her  feet. 

Dear  heart  of  mine,  own  heart  of  mine, 

Ah,  well  may  Winter  loud  repine  ! 

She  turns  before  her  suitor  bold : 

He  is  so  old,  he  is  so  cold  — 

No  !  dear  is  May,  and  near  is  May, 

He  cannot,  now,  be  far  away, 

And  so  she  says  old  Winter,  Nay. 

Dear  heart  of  mine,  sweet  heart  of  mine, 
Shall  love  meet  love  and  make  no  sign  ? 
The  weeks  they  come,  the  weeks  they  go ; 
Nor  Winter's  snow  nor  Summer's  glow 
Can  chill  the  land,  can  thrill  the  land, 
As  look  of  eye  and  touch  of  hand 
May  those  true  souls  who  understand! 


TOO  LEARNED. 

RUTH    HALL. 

MA  says  I  am  lucky  as  I  can  be 
To  marry  Professor  Gaunt, 
And  Pa  says  he  wonders  what  he  can  see 

In  a  girl  like  me  to  want; 
And  at  first  no  one  was  prouder  than  I 
(His  fame  is  world- wide,  you  know), 
But  —  I  must  tell  some  one  or  I  shall  die  - 
Nell,  it  is  awfully  slow. 

I  thought  he'd  come  wooing  like  other  men, 

In  spite  of  being  so  wise, 
And  say  he  loved  me  again  and  again, 

And  praise  my  hair  and  my  eyes. 
But  he  talks  of  things  I  can't  understand, 

Of  fossils  and  snakes  and  shells ; 
He  never  dreams  of  holding  my  hand, 

Or  bringing  me  caramels. 

I  want  a  lover  to  talk  of  love, 

Smooth  my  hair  and  look  at  me ; 
I  want  him  to  call  me  "  Darling  "  and  "  Dove,' 

Anil  pull  me  clown  on  his  knee ; 
I  want  him  to  write  me  foolish  rhymes, 

To  give  me  some  little  surprise  : 
Well,  I  can't  he<p  it,  I  wish  sometimes 

He  wasn't  so  awfully  wise! 


MRS.  GOLIGHTLY. 

GERTRUDE   HALL. 

/"T~*HE  time  is  come  to  speak,  I  think; 

*•      For  on  the  square  I  met 
My  beauteous  widow,  fresh  and  pink, 
Her  black  gown  touched  at  every  brink 
With  tender  violet. 

And  at  her  throat  the  white  cr£pe  lisse 

Spoke  in  a  fluffy  bow 
Of  woe  that  should  perhaps  ne'er  cease, 
(Peace  to  thy  shade,  Golightly,  peace  !) 

Yet  mitigated  woe. 

In  her  soft  eye,  that  used  to  scan 
The  ground,  nor  seem  to  see, 
The  hazel  legend  sweetly  ran, 
"  I  could  not  wholly  hate  a  man 
For  quite  adoring  me." 

And  when  she  drew  her  'kerchief  fine, 

A  hint  of  heliotrope 
Its  snow,  edged  with  an  inky  line, 
Exhaled  —  from  which  scent  you  divine 

Through  old  regrets  new  hope. 

And  then  her  step  —  so  soft  and  slow, 
She  scarcely  seemed  to  lift 
81 


MRS.   GOLIGHTLY. 

From  off  the  sward  her  widowed  toe, 
One  year  —  one  little  year  ago !  — 
So  soft  yet,  yet  so  swift ; 

Then,  too,  her  blush,  her  side  glance  coy, 

Tell  me  in  easy  Greek, — 
(I  wonder  could  her  little  boy 
Prove  source  of  serious  annoy  ?) 

The  time  is  come  to  speak. 


ALN  ASCH  A  R  — NEW-YORK,  1887. 

MRS.    M.    P.    HANDY. 

\  A 7HEKE  was  I  last  week  ?  At  the  Skinners'  ; 

^  It's  really  a  nice  place  to  dine : 
The  old  man  gives  capital  dinners, 

And  is  rather  a  good  judge  of  wine. 
The  daughters  are  stylish  and  pretty 

Nice  girls  !  eh  ?     Don't  know  them,  you  say  ? 
Indeed  !     That  is  really  a  pity  ; 

I'll  take  you  there  with  me  some  day. 

You'll  be  pleased  with  the  eldest  —  Miss  Carrie  ; 

But  Maude's  rather  more  in  my  style. 
By  George  !  if  a  fellow  could  marry, 

There's  a  girl  who  would  make  it  worth  while! 
But  it  costs  such  a  lot  when  you're  doubled ; 

You  must  live  in  some  style, — there's  the  rub. 
Now,  a  single  man  isn't  so  troubled, 

It's  always  good  form  at  the  club. 

As  to  Maude,  she'd  say  yes  in  a  minute, 
If  I  asked  for  her  hand,  I  dare  say  : 

Soft,  white  hand, —  if  a  fortune  were  in  it, 
I'd  ask  her  to  have  me  to-day. 


ALNASCHAR. 

Father  rich  ?    Well,  you  know  there's  no  knowing 
How  a  man  will  cut  up  till  he's  dead. 

Have  I  looked  at  his  tax-list?     I'm  going 
To  do  it ;  old  boy,  that's  well  said  ! 

But  even  rich  fathers  aren't  willing 

Always  to  come  down  with  the  pelf; 
They'll  say  they  began  with  a  shilling, 

And  think  you  can  do  it  yourself. 
What's  that  paper,  just  there  ?  The  Ho?ne  Journal? 

What's  the  news  in  society,  eh  ? 
ENGAGED  !     Now,  by  all  the  infernal  — 

It  can't  be ;  pass  it  over  this  way. 

Hm  !  "  Reception,  Club  breakfast,  Grand  dinner. 

"  We  learn  that  the  charming  Miss  Maude, 
Youngest  daughter  of  Thomas  O.  Skinner, 

Is  engaged  to  George  Jones," — He's  a  fraud  ! — 
"  Of  the  firm  of  Jones,  Skinner  &  Baker. 

The  marriage  will  take  place  in  May." 
Hang  the  girl  for  a  flirt,  the  deuce  take  her! 

Well,  what  are  you  laughing  at,  eh  ? 


DE   CONVENANCE. 

MRS,    M.    P.    HANDY. 

O  glad  you  are  here  for  the  wedding! 

I  want  you  to  see  my  trousseau. 
Pa  gave  me  carte  blanche  for  the  outfit, — 

'Tis  all  he  need  give  me,  you  know. 
'Tisn't  every  girl  marries  three  millions, 

And  so  he's  as  pleased  as  can  be. 
Here's  the  dress  dear,  white  satin,  Worth's  latest, 
And  the  flounces  and  veil  real  point :  see  ! 

The  girls  are  all  dying  with  envy. 

Last  summer  at  Newport,  the  way 
They  courted  the  man  for  his  money 

Was  disgusting,  I  really  must  say. 
Oh,  Tiffany's  keeping  my  diamonds  — 

I  shouldn't  feel  safe  with  them  here  ; 
I  think  they  will  make  a  sensation  ; 

No  bride  has  had  finer  this  year. 
\ 

Of  course  we  are  going  to  Europe, 
The  state-rooms  are  taken  and  all ; 

1  low  long  we  shall  stay  I  don't  know,  but 
I  guess  until  late  in  the  fall. 


DE   CONVENANCE. 

When  we  get  back,  I'll  give  a  grand  party. 

The  house  he  is  building  up  town 
Will  be  something  superb  when  it's  finished ; 

I  wish  the  man's  name  wasn't  Brown ! 

In  love  with  him  ?     Jule  !  why,  you're  joking ; 

He's  fifty  at  least,  if  a  day  ; 
But  then,  he  is  really  in  love,  dear, — 

I'm  sure  I  shall  have  my  own  way. 
You  know  I  was  never  romantic ; 

If  he  wants  a  pretty  young  wife, 
Why,  I  don't  object  to  be  petted 

And  worshiped  the  rest  of  my  life. 

It's  wicked  to  marry  for  money  ? 

Oh,  yes,  but  who  likes  being  poor  ? 
Don't  they  say  love  flies  out  of  the  window 

When  poverty  darkens  the  door  ? 
I  did  come  near  falling  in  love  once 

With  the  handsomest  fellow  in  town, 
An  artist,  with  nothing  but  talent  — 

My  stars  !  how  the  pater  did  frown  ! 

But  now  he's  delighted.     Three  millions  ! 

What  well-brought-up  girl  dare  refuse  ? 
And  the  other  girls'  mothers  are  wishing 

Their  own  daughters  stood  in  my  shoes. 
There's  myyfowr/now.     See  his  horses  ! 

Perhaps  he  does  look  rather  grim. 
And  what  of  the  other  young  artist  ? 

Ah,  well,  we  won't  talk  about  him  ! 


A  CHALLENGE. 

JAMES    CLARENCE    HARVEY. 

u  /"^OOD-night, "  he  said,  and  he  held  her  hand, 

^  In  a  hesitating  way, 
And  hoped  that  her  eyes  would  understand 

What  his  tongue  refused  to  say. 

lie  held  her  hand  and  he  murmured  low  : 

"I'm  sorry  to  go  like  this. 
It  seems  so  frigidly  cool,  you  know, 

This  '  Mister  '  of  ours,  and  '  Miss.'  " 

' '  I  thought — perchance  ' ' — and  he  paused  to  note 

If  she  seemed  inclined  to  frown  ; 
But  the  light  in  her  eyes  his  heartstrings  smote, 

As  she  blushingly  looked  down. 

She  spoke  no  word,  but  she  picked  a  speck 

Of  dust  from  his  coat  lapel  ; 
So  small,  such  a  wee,  little,  tiny  fleck, 

'Twas  a  wonder  she  saw  so  well. 

But  it  brought  her  face  so  very  near, 

In  that  dim,  uncertain  light, 
That  the  thought,  unspoken,  was  made  quite  clear, 

And  I  know  'twas  a  sweet  "Good-night." 
87 


HALF  AN  HOUR  BEFORE  SUPPER. 

BRET   HARTE. 

44  CO  she's  here,   your  unknown    Dulcinea — the  lady 

you  met  on  the  train — 
And  you  really  believe  she  would  know  you  if  you  were 

to  meet  her  again  ?  ' ' 

"  Of  course/'  he  replied,  "  she  would  know  me  ;  there 

never  was  womankind  yet 
Forgot  the  effect  she  inspired.     She  excuses,  but  does 

not  forget." 

"  Then  you  told  her  your  love  ?  "  asked  the  elder  ;    the 

younger  looked  up  with  a  smile  ; 
"I  sat  by  her  side  half  an  hour — what  else  was  I  doing 

the  while  ? 

"  What,  sit  by  the  side  of  a  woman  as  fair  as  the  sun  in 

the  sky, 
And    look   somewhere   else   lc.st    the  dazzle   flash  back 

from  your  own  to  her  eye  ? 

"  No,  I  hold  that  the  speech  of  the  tongue  be  as  frank 

and  as  bold  as  the  look, 
And  I  held  up  herself  to  herself — that  \va.;   more  than 

she  got  from  the  book." 


HALF  AN  HOUR  BEFORE  SUPPER.  89 

' '  Young  blood  !  ' '  laughed  the  elder  ;   "no  doubt  you 

are  voicing  the  mode  of  to-day  ; 

But   then   we   old    fogies   at  least  gave  the  lady  some 
'  chance  for  delay. 

"  There's  my  wife — (you  must  know) — we  first  met  on 
the  journey  from  Florence  to  Rome  ; 

It  took  me  three  weeks  to  discover  who  was  she  and 
where  was  her  home  ! 

"  Three  more  to  be  duly  presented  ;  three  more  ere  I 

saw  her  again  ; 
And  a  year  ere  my  romance  began  where  yours  ended 

that  day  in  the  train." 

"  Oh,  that  was  the  style  of  the  stage  coach  ;  we  travel 

to-day  by  express  ; 
Forty  miles  to  the  hour, "  he  answered,  "won't  admit 

of  a  passion  that's  less." 

"  But  what  if  you  make  a  mistake  ?  "  quoth   the  elder. 

The  younger  half  sighed  : 
"What   happens   when    signals  are  wrong  or   switches 

misplaced?  "  he  replied. 

"Very  well,   I  must  bow  to   your  wisdom,"    the  elder 

returned,  "  but  submit 
Your  chances  of  winning  this  woman  your  boldness  has 

bettered  no  whit. 


90  HALF  AN  HO  UR  BE  FOR  E  S  UPPER. 

"  Why,  you  do  not  at  best  know  her  name,  and  what  if 

I  try  your  ideal 
With  something,  if  not  quite  so  fair,  at  least  more  en 

regie  and  real  ? 

"  Let   me  find   you   a  partner.     Nay,  come,  I  insist — 

you  shall  follow — this  way. 
My  dear,  will  you  not  add   your  grace  to  entreat  Mr. 

Rapid  to- stay  ? 

';My  wife,  Mr.  Rapid — Eh,  what  !     Why,  he's  gone — 

yet  he  said  he  would  conu  ; 
How    rude  !     I    don't    wonder,     my    dear,     you    are 

properly  crimson  and  dumb  !  " 


WHAT  THE  WOLF  REALLY  SAID    TO   LITTLE 
RED  RIDING-HOOD. 

BRET    HARTE. 

1I7ONDERING  Maiden,  so  puzzled  and  fair, 

Why  dost  thou  murmur  and  ponder  and  stare  ? 
,     "  Why  are  my  eyelids  so  open  and  wild  ?  "— 
Only  the  better  to  see  with,  my  child  ! 
Only  the  better  and  clearer  to  view 
Cheeks  that  are  rosy  and  eyes  that  arc  blue. 

Dost  thou  still  wonder  and  ask  why  these  arms 
Fill  thy  soft  bosom  with  tender  alarms, 

Swaying  so  wickedly  ? are  they  misplaced 

Clasping  or  shielding  some  delicate  waist  ? — 
Hands  whose  coarse  sinews  may  fill  you  with  fear, 
Only  the  better  protect  you,  my  dear  ! 

Little  Red  Riding-Hood,  when  in  the  street, 
Why  do  I  press  your  small  hand  when  we  meet  ? 
Why,  when  you  timidly  offer  your  cheek, 
Why  did  I  sigh,  and  why  didn't  I  speak  ? 

Why,  well,  you — see  if  the  truth  must  appear 

I'm  not  your  grandmother,  Riding -Hood,  dear  ! 
9' 


A   BOUTONNIERE. 

CHARLES    HENRY   LUDERSo 

A    DEWY  fragrance  drifts  at  times 
•**  Across  my  willing  senses, 
And  leads  the  rillet  of  my  rhymes 
From  city  gutters,  gusts,  and  grimes 
To  lowland  fields  and  fences. 

I  seem  to  see,  as  I  inhale 

This  perfume  faint  and  fleeting, 
Green  hillsides  sloping  to  a  vale, 
Whose  leafy  shadows  screen  the  pale 
Wood-flowers  from  noonday's  greeting. 

I  hear  the  song  —  the  sweet  heartache  — 

Of  just  a  pair  of  thrushes  ; 
And  hear,  half  dreaming,  half  awake, 
The  ripple  of  a  streamlet  break 

Their  momentary  hushes. 

And  why,  dear  heart,  do  I  to-day, 

Hemmed  in  by  court  and  alley, 
Seem  lost  in  haunts  of  faun  and  fay  ? 
Look  !  —  on  my  coat  I've  pinned  your  spray 

Of  lilies  of  the  valley. 


ON  A  HYMN  BOOK. 

W.  J.  HENDERSON. 

r\LD  Hymn  Book,  sure  I  thought  I'd  lo.-.t  you 

In  the  days  now  long  gone  by  ; 
I'd  forgotten  where  I  tossed  you  ; 
Gracious  !  how  I  sigh. 

In  the  church  a  thin  partition 

Stood  between  her  pew  and  mine  ; 

And  her  pious,  sweet  contrition 
Struck  me  as  divine. 

Yes,  remarkably  entrancing 

Was  she  in  her  sable  furs  ; 
And  my  eyes  were  always  glancing 

Up,  old  book,  to  hers. 

Bless  you,  very  well  she  knew  it, 

And  I'm  sure  she  liked  it  too  ; 
Once  she  whispered  "Please  don't  do  it," 

But  her  eyes  said  l '  Do. ' ' 

93 


ON  A   HYMN  BOOK. 

How  to  speak — to  tell  my  passion  ? 

How  to  make  her  think  me  true  ? 
Love  soon  found  a  curious  fashion, 

For  he  spoke  through  you. 

How  I  vised  to  search  your  pages 
For  the  words  I  wished  to  say  : 

And  receive  my  labor's  wages 
Every  Sabbath  day  ! 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  was  to  hand  her 

You,  with  lines  I'd  marked  when  found 

And  how  well  I'd  understand  her 
When  she  blushed  and  frowned  ! 

And  one  day,  old  book,  you  wriggled 
From  my  hand  and,  rattling,  fell 

Upon  the  floor  ;  and  she — she  giggled — 
Did  Miss  Isabel. 

Then  when  next  we  met  out  walking, 

I  was  told  in  tearful  tones 
How  she'd  get  a  dreadful  talking 

From  the  Reverend  Jones. 

Ah  me  !  No  one  could  resist  her 
In  those  sweet  and  buried  years  ; 

So  I  think — I  think  I  kissed  her, 
Just  to  stop  her  tears. 


OiV  A  HYMN  BOOK.  05 

Jones  I  gave  a  good  sound  chaffing  ; 

Called  his  sermon  dry  as  bones  ; 
Soon  fair  Isabel  was  laughing 

Said  she  hated  Jones . 

It  was  after  that  I  lost  you 

For  I  needed  you  no  more  ; 
Somewhere — anywhere  I  tossed  you  ; 

On  a  closet  floor. 

Reverend  Samuel  still  preaches  ; 

Isabel  her  past  atones. 
In  his  Sunday  school  she  teaches — 

Mrs.  Samuel  Jones. 


PALMISTRY. 

W.    J.    HENDERSON. 

H,  give  me,  Eve,  that  lily  hand  — 

Nay,  start  not  with  that  sucldeu  glow 
See,  palmistry  I  understand  ; 
I'll  read  these  lines  before  I  go. 

This  head-line's  full  and  broad  and  long,' 
I  know  by  that  to  thought  you're  wed, 

And  carry  culture  rich  and  strong 

Within  that  graceful,  gold-crovvn'd  head. 

This  line  of  life  is  straight  and  deep  : 
By  that  I  know  your  future's  fair  : 

Some  happiness  shall  wake  from  sleep 
To  light  your  life  with  blessings  rare 

This  heart-line  is  so  true  —  ah,  well, 
One  knows  that  looking  in  your  i'ac< 

And  in  your  eyes,  that  truly  tell 

How  rich  the  heart  must  be  in  grace. 

Nay,  more  I  dare  not  tell,  1  vow ; 

I  can't  —  perhaps  you  may  divine  — 
But  don't  you  think,  pray  tell  me,  now, 

Your  hand  fits  very  well  in  mine  ? 


MY  AUNT, 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 

IV/TY  aunt  !    my  dear  unmarried  aunt 
Long  years  have  o'er  her  flown  ; 
Yet  still  she  strains  the  aching  clasp 

That  binds  her  virgin  zone  ; 
I  know  it  hurts  her — though  she  looks 

As  cheerful  as  she  can  ; 
Her  waist  is  ampler  than  her  life, 

For  life  is  but  a  span. 


My  aunt  !  my  poor  deluded  aunt  ! 

Her  hair  is  almost  gray  ; 
Why  will  she  train  that  winter  curl 

In  such  a  spring-like  way  ? 
How  can  she  lay  her  glasses  down 

And  say  she  reads  as  well, 
When,  through  a  double  convex  lens, 

She  just  makes  out  to  spell  ? 


98  M}'  AUNT, 

Her  father — grandpapa  !  forgive 

This  erring  lip  its  smiles — 
Vowed  she  should  make  the  finest  girl 

Within  a  hundred  miles  ; 
He  sent  her  to  a  stylish  school ; 

'Twas  in  her  thirteenth  June  ; 
And  with  her,  as  the  rules  required, 

"Two  towels  and  a  spoon." 

They  braced  my  aunt  against  a  board. 

To  make  her  straight  and  tall  ; 
They  laced  her  up,  they  starved  her  down, 

To  make  her  light  and  small  ; 
They  pinched  her  feet,  they  singed  her  hair, 

They  screwed  it  up  with  pins  ; — 
Oh,  never  mortal  suffered  more 

In  penance  for  her  sins. 

So,  when  my  precious  aunt  was  done 

My  grandsire  brought  her  back  ; 
(By  daylight,  lest  some  rabid  youth 

Might  follow  on  the  track) 
' l  Ah  !  ' '  said  my  grandsire,  as  he  shook 

Some  powder  in  his  pan, 
"  What  could  this  lovely  creature  do 

Against  a  desperate  man  !  " 

Alas  !  nor  chariot,  nor  barouche, 
Nor  bandit  cavalcade, 


Ml '  A  UNT. 

Tore  from  the  trembling  father's  arms 
His  all-accomplished  maid, 

For  her  how  happy  had  it  been  ! 
And  Heaven  had  spared  to  me 

To  see  one  sad,  im^athered  rose 
On  my  ancestral  tree. 


TO  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "A  LADY." 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 

1UELL,  Miss,  I  wonder  where  you  live, 

I  wonder  what's  your  name, 
i  wonder  how  you  came  to  be 

In  such  a  stylish  frame  ; 
Perhaps  you  were  a  favorite  child, 

Perhaps  an  only  one  ; 
Perhaps  your  friends  were  not  aware 

You  had  your  portrait  done  ! 

Yet  you  must  be  a  harmless  soul  ; 

I  cannot  think  that  Sin 
Would  care  to  throw  his  loaded  dice, 

With  such  a  stake  to  win  ; 
1  cannot  think  you  would  provoke 

The  poet's  wicked  pen, 
Or  make  young  women  bite  their  lips, 

Or  ruin  fine  young  men. 

Pray,  did  you  ever  hear,  my  love, 

Of  boys  that  go  about 
Who,  for  a  very  trifling  sum 

Will  snip  one's  picture  out  ? 


TO  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  "  A  LADYS 

I'm  not  averse  to  red  and  white, 
But  all  things  have  their  place  : 

I  think  a  profile  cut  in  black 
Would  suit  your  style  of  face  ! 

I  love  sweet  features  ;  I  will  owi. 

That  I  should  like  myself  '  > ' 

To  see  my  portrait  on  a  wall, 

Or  bust  upon  a  shelf  ; 
lUit  nature  sometimes  makes  one  up 

Of  such  sad  odds  and  ends. 
It  really  might  be  quite  as  well 

Hushed  up  among  one's  friends! 


AUNT  TABITHA. 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 

"H7HATEVER  I  do,  and  whatever  I  say, 

Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  that  isn't  the  way  : 
When  she  was  a  girl  (forty  summers  ago) 
Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  never  did  so. 

Dear  aunt !  if  I  only  could  take  her  advice  ! 
But  I  like  my  own  way,  and  I  find  it  so  nice  ! 
And  besides,  I  forget  half  the  things  I  am  told  ; 
But  they  all  will  come  back  to  me — when  I  am  old. 

If  a  youth  passes  by,  it  may  happen,  no  doubt, 
He  may  chance  to  look  in  as  I  chance  to  look  out  ; 
She  would  never  endure  an  impertinent  stare — 
It  is  horrid  she  says,  and  I  mustn't  sit  there. 

A  walk  in  the  moonlight  has  pleasures,  I  own. 
But  it  isn't  quite  safe  to  be  walking  alone; 
So  I  take  a  lad's  arm — just  for  safety,  you  know — 
^5ut  Aunt  Tabitha  tells  me  they  never  did  so. 

302 


A  UN  T  TA  BI THA .  103 

How  wicked  we  arc,  and  how  good  they  were  then  ! 
They  kept  at  arm's  length  those  detestable  men  ; 
What  an  era  of  virtue  she  lived  in — but  stay — 
Were  the  men  all  such  rogue.:>  in  Aunt  Tabitha's  day  ? 

If  the  men  were  so  wicked  I'll  ask  my  papa 
How  he  dared  to  propose  to  my  darling  mamma  ; 
Was  he  like  the  rest  of  them  ?  Goodness !    Who  knows  ? 
And  what  shall  /say  if  a  wretch  should  propose? 

I  am  thinking  if  Aunt  knew  so  little  of  sin, 
What  a  wonder  Aunt  Tabitha's  aunt  must  have  been  ! 
And  her  grand-aunt — it  scares  me — how  shockingly  sad 
That  we  girls  of  to-day  are  so  frightfully  bad  ! 

A  martyr  will  save  us,  and  nothing  else  can — 
I./?t  uii  perish — to  rescue  some  wretched  young  man  ! 
Though  when  to  the  altar  a  victim  I  go, 
Aunt  Tabitha'll  tell  me  she  never  did  so  ! 


HI:AKT  ANP  HAND. 

rilAKl.l-.s  lAiriN   llll.UKKTH. 

i^WFFT.  L-t  me  read  that  Httb  palm  ; 

Perchance  'tis  true,  as  saj;es  say. 
That  there  is  written  many  a  charm 
To  draw  UK-  future's  veil  a \\.iv. 

I  press  the  dainty  tinker-tips — 

'Tis  a  preliminary  part  , 
Ami  hold  them  softly  to  my  lips — 
Tis  a  requirement  of  the  art. 

I 1  ere  run>  the  life  line,  lonij  and  deep  ; 
Few  cro^ses  on  its  snowy  plain  ; 

Ah.  seldom,  sweet  one,  may'st  thou  weep. 
And  seldom  know  the  touch  of  pain  ! 

And  here  the  line  of  wealth  I  see, 

1  — t  in  a  broader  line  U!K>\V  ; 
If  I  know  au^ht  that  line  should  be 

The  sii;n  of  true  and  perfect  love. 


Ill:  ART  A<\n  IIAXD.  ic5 

Ay,  full  across  the  palm  it  curves, 
And  side  by  side  with  life  it  tends  ; 

It  never  falters,  never  swerves, 
And  only  with  the  life  it  ends. 

And  here  another  humbler  line  ! 

'Tis  that  of  one  who  loves  thee  dear  ; 
See  how  it  followeth  close  to  thine, 

Yet  dareth  not  approach  too  near  ! 

Yet,  stay  !  they  touch — thy  line  with  his — 
Look  where  the  fateful  symlx>ls  meet  I 

Sure  that  conjunction  means  a  kiss  ! 
Oh,  haste,  fulfil  the  omen,  sweet  ! 


ONE  OF  THE  PACK. 

GEORGE    PARSONS    LATHROP. 

T  SEE  how  it  is  :  I'm  one  of  the  pack, 

A  paltry  playing  card,  nothing  more  ; 
You  shuffle  and  deal,  then  take  me  back, 

Or  toss  me  to  lie  where  I  was  before. 
There  are  royal  heads  at  your  mimic  court, 

But  they  fare  no  better;  they're  in  the  same  lix  ; 
For  you  vary  the  usual  order  of  sport  r 

You  take  what  you  please  while  you  play  your  tricks. 


No  doubt  it  serves  well  as  a  source  of  fun 

To  match  your  lovers,  this  one  against  that  ; 
Though  perhaps  when  the  evening's  amusement  is  done 

And  the  pack  put  aside,  we  seem  rather  flat. 
But  suppose  that  by  chance  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 

When  you  dream  with  disdain  of  our  bsing  inert, 
We  should  break  your  repose,  rising  up  in  our  might, 

And  declare  to  your  face  that  our  feelings  are  hurt  ? 


ONE  OF   THE  PACK.  107 

For,  whatever  you  fancy,  we  each  have  a  soul, 

And  the  rules  that  apply  here  are  oddly  so  planned 
That  while  we  seem  bent  to  your  fingers's  control 

And  are  played  with,  yet  we  too  are  taking  a  hand 
Don't  you  see  what  a  sequence  of  hearts  you  may  break 

While  attempting  one  mean  little  trump  spot  to  save  ? 
Or  succumb  to  an  equally  luckless  mistake 

And  let  a  king  go  for  the  sake  of  a  knave  ? 

Does  Tom's  diamond  take  you,  or  is  it  my  heart  ? 

The  deuce,  after  all  will  perhaps  end  the  race  ; 
Then  again,  you  may  yield  to  young  Algernon  Smart, 

Or  the  one-eyed  old  banker's  Cyclopean  ace. 
The  game's  to  be  Lottery — so  you  said — 

Or  Matrimony  ?     No  !  both,  I  declare, 
Why,  the  next  thing  I  know  you'll  take  to  old  maid 

And  leave  me  to  sorrow  and  Solitaire. 

Cross  purposes  still !     This  never  will  do. 

Yoifve  began  Vingt-et-un  ;  Pm  at  thirty-one — 
Just  ten  years  apart.      Oh,  I  wish  I  knew 

Some  smoother  way  to  make  matters  run  ! 
You  change  the  game  like  a  pantomime 

And  now  its  euchre,  I  really  believe, 
For  you're  trying  to  cheat  me  half  of  the  time 

With  a  "little  joker  " — a  laugh  in  your  sleeve. 

Let  us  end  this  nonsense  !     What  do  you  say  ? 
Leave  me  out  and  go  on  with  the  rest, 


ic8  ONE  OF  THE  PACK. 

Or  throw  the  whole  heap  of  cards  away, 
And  stake  your  all  on  a  man  as  the  best. 

You  can't  manage  love  according  to  Hoyle, 

And  your  effort  to  do  so  you  surely  would  rue  ; 

Besides  what's  the  use  of  such  intricate  toil, 
You  shall  win  all  the  games  if  I  only  win  you  ! 


LAST  JULY. 

SOPHIE    ST.   G.   LAWRENCE. 

SHE'S  barely  twenty,  and  her  eyes 
Are  very  soft  and  very  blue  ; 
Her  lips  seem  made  for  sweet  replies, — 

Perhaps  they're  made  for  kisses  too ; 
Her  little  teeth  are  white  as  pearl, 

Her  nose  aspires  to  the  sky ; 
She  really  is  a  charming  girl, 
And  I  adored  her  —  last  July. 

We  danced  and  swam,  and  bowled  and  walked ; 

She  let  me  squeeze  her  finger  tips ; 
Entranced  I  listened  when  she  talked, 

And  trash  seemed  wisdom  from  her  lips. 
I  sent  her  roses  till  my  purse 

Was  drained,  I  found,  completely  dry; 
I  longed  to  sing  her  charms  in  verse  — 

But  all  of  this  was  last  July. 

Of  course  at  last  we  had  to  part; 

I  saw  a  tear  drop  on  her  cheek ; 
I  left  her  with  an  aching  heart, 

And  dreamt  about  her  —  for  a  week. 

109 


LAST  JULY. 

Bu.t  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind, 
And  somehow,  as  the  time  went  by, 

Much  fainter  I  began  to  find 
The  memory  of  that  last  July. 

July  has  come  again  at  last ; 

With  summer  gowns  the  rocks  are  gay 
It  seemed  an  echo  of  the  past 

To  meet  her  on  the  rocks  to-day. 
She's  even  fairer  than  of  yore, 

And  —  yet  I  could  not  tell  you  why  — 
I  find  the  girl  an  awful  bore  — 

So  long  it  is  since  last  July. 


TIME'S   REVENGE. 

WALTER  LEARNED. 

\  A /HEN  I  was  ten  and  she  fifteen  — 

Ah  me,  how  fair  I  thought  her ! 
She  treated  with  disdainful  mien 

The  homage  that  I  brought  her, 
And,  in  a  patronizing  way 
Would  of  my  shy  advances  say : 

<;  It's  really  quite  absurd,  you  see ; 

He's  very  much  too  young  for  me." 

I'm  twenty  now;  she,  twenty-five  — 
Well,  well,  how  old  she's  growing ! 

I  fancy  that  my  suit  might  thrive 
If  pressed  again ;  but,  owing 

To  great  discrepancy  in  age, 

Her  marked  attentions  don't  engage 
My  young  affections,  for,  you  see, 
She's  really  quite  too  old  for  me. 


ON  THE  FLY-LEAF 
OF  A  BOOK  OF  OLD  PLAYS. 

WALTER  LEARNED. 

A  T  Cato's  Head  in  Russell  street 
**  These  leaves  she  sat  a-stitching ; 
I  fancy  she  was  trim  and  neat, 
Blue-eyed  and  quite  bewitching. 

Before  her  in  the  street  below, 
All  powder,  ruffs,  and  laces, 

There  strutted  idle  London  beaux 
To  ogle  pretty  faces  ; 

While,  filling  many  a  Sedan  chair 
With  hoop  and  monstrous  feather, 

In  patch  and  powder  London's  fair 
Went  trooping  past  together. 

Swift,  Addison,  and  Pope,  mayhap 
They  sauntered  slowly  past  her, 

Or  printer's  boy,  with  gown  and  cap, 
For  Steele  went  trotting  faster. 

P'or  beau  nor  wit  had  she  a  look, 
Nor  lord  nor  lady  minding ; 

She  bent  her  head  above  this  bojk, 
Attentive  to  her  binding. 


ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  A  BOOK  OF  OLD  PLA  VS.  113 

And  one  stray  thread  of  golden  hair, 

Caught  on  her  nimble  fingers, 
Was  stitched  within  this  volume,  where 

Until  to-day  it  lingers. 

Past  and  forgotten,  beaux  and  fair  ; 

Wigs,  powder,  all  out-dated  ; 
A  queer  antique,  the  Sedan  chair  ; 

Pope,  stiff  and  antiquated. 

Yet  as  I  turn  these  odd  old  plays, 

This  single  stray  lock  finding, 
I'm  back  in  those  forgotten  days, 

And  watch  her  at  her  binding. 


MARJORIE'S   KISSES. 

WALTER  LEARNED. 

X  A  ARJORIE  laughs  and  climbs  on  my  knee, 

And  I  kiss  her  and  she  kisses  me. 
I  kiss  her,  but  I  don't  much  care, 
Because,  although  she  is  charming  and  fair, 
Marjorie's  only  three. 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  I  ween, 
When,  if  I  tell  her  of  this  little  scene, 
She  will  smile  and  prettily  blush,  and  then 
I  shall  long  in  vain  to  kiss  her  again, 
When  Marjorie's  seventeen. 


114 


MY  MEERSCHAUMS. 

CHARLES    F.    LUMMIS. 

I    ONG  pipes  and  short  ones,  straight  and  curved, 
*~*  High  carved  and  plain,  dark-hued  and  creamy  ; 
Slim  tubes  for  cigarettes  reserved, 
And  stout  ones  for  Havanas  dreamy. 

This  cricket  on  an  amber  spear 

Impaled,  recalls  that  golden  weather 

When  love  and  T,  too  young  to  fear 

Heartburn,  smoked  cigarettes  together. 

And  even  now  —  too  old  to  take 
The  little  papered  shams  for  flavor  — 

I  light  it  oft  for  her  sweet  sake 

Who  gave  it,  with  her  girlish  favor. 

And  here's  the  mighty  student  bowl 

Whose  tutoring  in  and  after  college 
Has  led  me  nearer  Wisdom's  goal 

Than  all  I  learned  of  text-book  knowledge. 

"  It  taught  me  ?  "   Aye,  to  hold  my  tongue, 
To  keep  a-light  and  yet  burn  slowly ; 

To  break  ill  spells  about  me  flung 
As  with  the  enchanted  whiff  of  Moly  ! 


MY  MEERSCHAUMS. 

This  narghileh,  whose  hue  betrays 

Perique  from  soft  Louisiana, 
In  Egypt  once  beguiled  the  days 

Of  Tewfik's  dreamy-eyed  Sultana. 

Speaking  of  color,  do  you  know 

A  maid  with  eyes  as  darkly  splendid 

As  are  the  hues  that  rich  and  slow 

On  this  Hungarian  bowl  have  blended  ? 

Can  artist  paint  the  fiery  glints 

Of  this  quaint  finger  here  beside  it, 

With  amber  nail  —  the  lustrous  tints, 
A  thousand  Partagas  have  dyed  it  ? 

"  And  this  old  silver  patched  affair  ?  " 

Well,  sir,  that  meerschaum  has  its  reasons 

For  showing  marks  of  time  and  wear ; 
For  in  its  smoke  through  fifty  seasons 

My  grandsire  blew  his  cares  away  ! 

And,  then,  when  done  with  life's  sojourning, 
At  seventy-five  dropped  dead  one  day, 

That  pipe  between  his  set  teeth  burning ! 

"  Killed  him  ?  "     No  doubt !  it's  apt  to  kill 

In  fifty  years'  incessant  using  — 
Some  twenty  pipes  a  day.     And  still, 

On  that  ripe,  well  filled  lifetime  musing, 

I  envy  oft  so  bright  a  part  — 

To  live  as  long  as  life's  a  treasure ; 


MY  MEERSCHAUMS.  II? 

To  die  of — not  an  aching  heart, 
But  —  half  a  century  of  pleasure  ! 

Well,  well !     I'm  boring  you,  no  doubt ; 

How  these  old  memories  will  undo  one  — 
I  see  you've  let  your  weed  go  out  — 

That's  wrong  !     Here,  light  yourself  a  new  one  ! 


MY  CIGARETTE. 

CHARLES  F.  LUMMIS. 

\yf  Y  cigarette  !     The  amulet 

That  charms  afar  unrest  and  sorrow ; 
The  magic  wand  that  far  beyond 

To-day,  can  conjure  up  to-morrow. 
Like  love's  desire,  thy  crown  of  fire 

So  softly  with  the  twilight  blending ; 
And  ah  !  meseems,  a  poet's  dreams 

Are  in  thy  wreaths  of  smoke  ascending. 

My  cigarette !     Can  I  forget 

How  Kate  and  I,  in  sunny  weather, 
Sat  in  the  shade  the  elm-tree  made 

And  rolled  the  fragrant  weed  together  ? 
I  at  her  side  beatified, 

To  hold  and  guide  her  fingers  willing; 
She  rolling  slow  the  paper's  snow, 

Putting  my  heart  in  with  the  filling. 

My  cigarette  !     I  see  her  yet, 

The  white  smoke  from  her  red  lips  curling, 
Her  dreaming  eyes,  her  soft  replies, 

Her  gentle  sighs,  her  laughter  purling ! 

T  118 


MY   CIGARETTE.  ng 

Ah,  dainty  roll,  whose  parting  soul 
Ebbs  out  in  many  a  snowy  billow, 

I  too  would  burn  if  I  could  earn 
Upon  her  lips  so  soft  a  pillow  ! 

Ah,  cigarette  !     The  gay  coquette 

Has  long  forgot  the  flames  she  lighted, 
And  you  and  I  unthinking  by 

Alike  arc  thrown,  alike  are  slighted. 
The  darkness  gathers  fast  without, 

A  rain-drop  on  my  window  plashes  ; 
My  cigarette  and  heart  are  out, 

And  naught  is  left  me  but  the  ashes. 


A  BOUTONNIERE. 

JEROME   A.    HART. 

A     BOUTONNIERE!     A  dainty  thing -- 
•**•  Were  I  a  poet  I  would  sing 
In  flowing  verse  thy  beauties  rare, 
O  boutonniere ! 

The  steel-clad  knight  wore  on  his  crest 
A  ribbon  from  his  lady's  breast ; 
The  modern  lover  still  doth  wear 
Her  boutonniere. 

A  bud  from  her  corsage  bouquet, 
Some  heliotrope  in  volute  spray, 
A  tendril,  too,  of  maiden  Vhair  — 
Ah,  boutonniere, 

Those  tendrils  wind  around  my  heart, 
The  rose-bud's  ihorns  have  made  me  smart 
Would  I  could  think  thou  wert  no  snare. 
O  boutonniere  i 


DECEPTION. 

CHARLES  HENRY  LUDERS. 

IT  took  just  a  day  to  discover 
That  all  my  precautions  were  nil. 

I  loved  her  —  ah  !  how  I  did  love  her  — 
And,  I  must  confess,  love  her  still. 

As  we  walked  where  the  moon  lit  the  woolly 
White  back  of  each  in-coming  wave, 

She  seemed  to  reciprocate  fully 
The  tender  affection  I  gave. 

We  parted.     Last  week  she  was  married  : 
The  wedding  was  private  and  nice. 

On  leaving,  the  couple  were  harried 
With  slippers  and  handfuls  of  rice. 

And  now  she  is  back  in  the  city, 

Installed  in  the  coziest  home, 
With  a  husband  who  thinks  it  a  pity 

An  hour  from  his  "  precious  "  to  roam. 

And  / — well,  I  count  myself  lucky; 

And  need  no  consoling,  for  she  — 
The  dear  little  darling,  the  "  ducky  "  — 

Was  good  enough  to  —  marry  me. 


AN  AMERICAN  GIRL, 

BRANDER    MATTHEWS. 

PHE'S  had  a  Vassar  education, 

And  points  with  pride  to  her  degrees  3 

She's  studied  household  decoration  ; 
She  knows  a  dado  from  a  frieze. 
And  tells  Corots  from  Boldinii;  ; 

A  Jaquemart  etching,  or  a  Haden, 

A  Whistler,  too,  perchance  might  please 

A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden. 


She  does  not  care  for  meditation  ; 

Within  her  bonnet  are  no  bees  ; 
She  has  a  gentle  animation, 

She  joins  in  singing  simple  glees. 

She  tries  no  trills,  no  rivalries, 
With  Lucca  (now  Baronin  Radcn) 

With  Nilsson  or  with  Gerster  ;  she's 
A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden. 


AN  A  ME  RICA  N  GIRL .  123 

I'm  blessed  above  the  whole  creation, 

Far,  far,  above  all  other  he's, 
I  ask  you  for  congratulation 

On  this  the  best  of  jubilees  ; 

I  go  with  her  across  the  seas 
Unto  what  Poe  would  call  an  Aiden, — 

I  hope  no  serpents  there  to  tease 
A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden. 

ENVOY. 

Princes,  to  you  the  western  breeze 
Bears  many  a  ship  and  heavy  laden, 

What  is  the  best  we  send  in  these  ? 

A  frank  and  free  young  Yankee  maiden. 


THE  BALLADE  OF  ADAPTATION. 

15RANDER    MATTHEWS. 

'TTIE  native  drama's  sick  and  dying. 

So  say  the  cynic  critic  crew  ; 
The  native  dramatist  is  crying — 

"  Bring  me  the  paste  !  Bring  me  the  glue  ! 

Bring  me  the  pen,  and  scissors,  too  ! 
Bring  me  the  works  of  E.  Augier  ! 

Bring  me  the  works  of  V.  Sardou  ! 
I  am  the  man  to  write  a  play.'' 

For  want  ot  plays  the  stage  is  sighing, 

Such  is  the  song  the  wide  world  through : 
The  native  dramatist  is  crying — 

"  Behold  the  comedies  I  brew  ! 

Behold  my  dramas  not  a  tew  ! 
On  German  tarces  I  can  prey, 

And  English  novels  I  can  brew  ; 
/  am  the  man  to  write  a  play  !  ' ' 
124 


THE  BALLADE  OF  ADAPTATION.  125 

There  is,  indeed,  no  one  denying 

That  fashion's  turned  from  old  to  new  ; 

The  native  dramatist  is  crying — 

"Moliere,  good-by  !     Shakespeare,  adieu  !  " 

I  do  not  think  so  much  of  you. 

Although  not  bad,  you've  had  your  day, 
And  for  the  present  you  won't  do, 

I  am  the  man  to  write  a  play  !  " 

ENVOY. 

Prince  of  the  stage,  don't  miss  the  cue, 

A  native  dramatist,  I  say 
To  every  cynic  critic,  "  Pooh  ! 

I  am  the  man  to  write  a  play  !  ' ' 


MEA   CULPA. 

EDWARD  S.   MARTIN. 

'HpHERE  is  a  thing  which  in  my  brain. 

Though  nightly  I  revolve  it, 
I  cannot  in  the  least  explain, 

Nor  do  I  hope  to  solve  it. 
While  others  tread  the  narrow  path 

In  manner  meek  and  pious, 
Why  is  it  that  my  spirit  hath 

So  opposite  a  bias  ? 

I  had  no  yearnings,  when  a  boy, 

To  sport  an  angel's  wrapper ; 
Nor  heard  I  with  tumultuous  joy 

The  church-frequenting  clapper. 
My  action  always  harmonized 

With  my  own  sweet  volition ; 
I  always  did  what  I  devised, 

But  rarely  asked  permission. 

I  went  to  school.     To  study  ?    No  ! 

I  dearly  loved  to  dally, 
And  dawdle  over  Ivanhoe, 

Tom  Brown,  and  Charles  O'Malley. 

8  126 


ME  A    CULPA.  I27 

In  recitation  I  was  used 

To  halt  on  every  sentence ; 
Repenting,  seldom  I  produced 

Fruits  proper  for  repentance. 

At  college  later  I  became 

Familiar  with  my  Flaccus ; 
Brought  incense  to  the  Muses'  flame, 

And  sacrificed  to  Bacchus. 
I  flourished  in  an  air  unfraught 

With  sanctity's  aroma ; 
Learned  many  things  I  was  not  taught, 

And  captured  a  diploma. 

I  am  not  well  provided  for, 

I  have  no  great  possessions  ; 
I  do  not  like  the  legal  or 

Medicinal  professions. 
Were  I  of  good  repute,  I  might 

Take  orders  as  a  deacon  ; 
But  I'm  no  bright  and  shining  light, 

But  just  a  warning  beacon. 

Though  often  urged  by  friends  sincere 

To  wed  a  funded  houri, 
I  cannot  read  my  title  clear 

To  any  damsel's  dowry  ; 
And  could  to  wedlock  I  induce 

An  heiress,  I  should  falter, 
For  fear  that  such  a  bridal  noose 

Might  prove  a  gilded  halter. 


128  ME  A    CULPA. 

My  tradesmen  have  suspicious  grown, 

My  friends  are  tired  of  giving ; 
Upon  the  cold,  cold  world  I'm  thrown 

To  hammer  out  a  living. 
I  fear  that  work  before  me  lies ; 

Indeed,  I  see  no  option, 
Unless  perhaps  I  advertise  — 

"An  orphan  for  adoption." 


INFIRM. 

EDWARD  S.  MARTIN. 

"  I   WILL  not  go,  "  he  said, "  for  well 

I  know  her  eyes'  insidious  spell, 
And  how  unspeakable  he  feels 
Who  takes  no  pleasure  in  his  meals. 
I  know  a  one  idea  man 
Should  undergo  the  social  ban, 
And  if  she  once  my  purpose  melts, 
I  know  I'll  think  of  nothing  else." 

"  I  care  not  though  her  teeth  are  pearls 
The  town  is  full  of  nicer  girls ; 
I  care  not  though  her  lips  are  red  — 
It  does  not  do  to  lose  one's  head ; 
I'll  give  her  leisure  to  discover, 
For  once,  how  little  I  think  of  her ; 
And  then,  how  will  she  feel  ?  "  cried  he, 
And  took  his  hat  and  went  to  see. 


129 


THE  ROSE  SHE  WORE  IN  WINTER. 

LOUISE   CHANDLER    MOULTON. 

f  \  ROSE,  so  subtly  sweet, 

What  dost  thou  in  the  snow — 
The  time  of  frost  and  sleet, 

When  roses  should  not  blow — 

Playing  at  summer  so  ? 

When  we  that  beauty  meet, 
Which  nightingales  in  June 

For  love  and  bliss  entreat, 
With  what  cold,  wintry  rune 
Shall  we  thy  praise  entune  ? 

My  Rose,  so  subtly  sweet, 

Thy  rose-red  lips  I  kiss  ; 
I  kneel  at  thy  dear  feet, 

Dear  Rose,  and  do  not  miss 

The  summer's  bygone  bliss. 
•3o 


A  LITTLE  COrvIEDY. 

LOUISE   CHANDLER   MOULTON. 

T  S  the  world  the  same,  do  you  think,  my  dear, 

As  when  we  walked  by  the  sea  together, 
And  the  white  caps  danced  and  the  cliffs  rose  sheer? 
And  we  were  glad  in  the  autumn  weather  ? 


You  played  at  loving  that  day,  my  dear — 
How  well  you  told  me  that  tender  story — 

And  I  made  answer,  with  smile  and  tear, 

While  the  sky  was  flushed  with  the  sunset's  glory, 

Now  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  I  see,  my  dear, 
That  far-off  path  by  the  surging  ocean — 

I  shut  my  eyes,  and  I  seem  to  hear 

Your  voice  surmounting  the  tide's  commotion. 

It  was  but  a  comedy  slight,  my  dear — 
Why  should  its  memory  come  to  vex  me  ? 

Cun  it  be  I  am  longing  that  you  should  appeal 
And  play  it  again  ?     My  thoughts  perplex  me. 


i32  A   LITTLE  COMEDY. 

'Tis  the  sea  and  the  shore  that  I  miss,  my  dear — 
The  sea  and  the  shore,  and  the  sunset's  glory — 

Or  would  these  be  nothing  without  you  near, 
To  murmur  again  that  fond,  old  story  ? 

I  know  you  now  but  too  well,  my  dear — 

With  your  heart  as  light  as  a  wind-blown  feather- 
Yet  somehow  the  world  seems  cold  and  drear 
Without  your  acting,  this  autumn  weather. 


IN  WINTER. 

LOUISE   CHANDLER    MOULTON. 

/A  TO  go  back  to  the  days  of  June, 

Just  to  be  young  and  alive  again, 
Hearken  again  to  the  mad,  sweet  tune 

Birds  were  singing  with  might  and  main 
South  they  flew  at  the  summer's  wane, 

Leaving  their  nests  for  storms  to  harry, 
Since  time  was  coming  for  wind  and  rain 

Under  the  wintry  skies  to  marry. 

Wearily  wander  by  dale  and  dune 

Footsteps  fettered  with  clanking  chain — 
Free  they  were  in  the  days  of  June, 

Free  they  never  can  be  again  : 
Fetters  of  age  and  fetters  of  pain, 

Joys  that  fly,  and  sorrows  that  tarry — 
Youth  is  over,  and  hope  were  vain 

Under  the  wintry  skies  to  marry. 
133 


i34  IN   WINTER. 

Now  we  chant  but  a  desolate  rune — 

"  O  to  be  young  and  alive  again  !  " — 
But  never  December  turns  to  June, 

And  length  of  living  is  length  of  pain  : 
Winds  in  the  nestless  trees  complain, 

Snows  of  winter  about  us  tarry, 
And  never  the  birds  come  back  again 

Under  the  wintry  skies  to  marry. 

ENVOI. 

Youths  and  maidens,  blithesome  and  vain, 
Time  makes  thrusts  that  you  cannot  parry, 

Mate  in  season,  for  who  is  fain 
Under  the  wintry  skies  to  marry  ? 


THE    BALLADE    OF    THE    ENGAGED 
YOUNG   MAN. 

R.    K.    MUNKITTRICK. 

H,  I  am  engaged  to  be  married  now, 
And  fondly  dream  of  the  happy  day 
When  orange  blossoms  shall  deck  her  brow  ; 
She's  fixed  the  date  for  the  month  of  May. 
And  yet  to  myself  I  softly  say, 
As  her  holiday  presents  go  ding-a-ling 

On  the  jeweler's  flashing  crystal  tray, 
"  I  wish  I  had  put  it  off  till  spring !  " 

As  a  prince  I  am  merry,  all  allow  ; 

I'm  like  a  bird  in  the  hawthorn  spray, 
Or  a  clam  when  the  tide  is  high,  I  vow, 

Or  a  child  with  his  latest  toy  at  play. 

Yet  I  have  to  think,  as  I  coolly  lay 
My  earnings  down  to  hear  Patti  sing, 

"  Though  my  lady's  an  angel  in  every  way, 

I  wish  I  had  put  it  off  till  spring  !  " 

8* 
135 


'3<5  THE  BALLADE  OF  THE  ENGA  GED  YOUNG  MAN. 

I  dance  and  I  romp  and  I  wonder  how 
I  should  ever  be  happy  or  blithe  or  gay, 

Did  not  Love  with  his  sweets  my  heart  endow  — 
(He  endowed  when  she  said  she'd  be  mine  for  aye) 
Yet  when  roses  I  get,  or  the  bright  coupe, 

And  down  to  the  charity  ball  we  wing, 
I  fancy  of  sense  I  have  not  a  ray, 

And  wish  I  had  put  it  off  till  spring ! 

ENVOI. 

Young  man,  I  am  neither  old  nor  gray ; 

But  I  can  inform  you  of  just  one  thing  : 
You'll  chant,  if  you  get  her  December  "  Yea," 

"  I  wish  I  had  put  it  off  till  spring  !  " 


AN    OLD    BEAU. 

R.    K.    MUNKITTRICK. 

"T7ULL  often  I  think  in  my  trim  swallow-tail, 

At  parties  where  flowers  their  fragrance  exhale, 
Of  times  when  my  pate  was  a  bower  of  curls, 
And  I  danced  with  the  grandmas  of  all  the  dear  girls. 

I  look  on  the  charms  that  their  beauties  unfold  — 
They  seem  the  same  damsels  while  I  have  grown  old. 
I  feel  like  white  winter  without  a  warm  ray  ; 
They  look  like  the  roses  that  blossom  in  May. 

But  winter  may  look  with  its  shiver  and  chill 
Through  the  windows  at  flowers  that  bloom  on  the  sill, 
And  I  may  ask  Edith  with  ringlets  of  jet 
If  she  will  dance  with  me  the  next  minuet. 

I  go  to  all  parties,  receptions,  first  nights, 
I'm  a  merry  old  bird  in  my  fanciful  flights  ; 
I  may  look,  like  the  winter,  a  snowy  old  thing, 
But  deep  in  my  heart  dwells  the  spirit  of  spring. 

I  know  that  I  am  not  as  old  as  I  look, 
My  voice  has  no  crack  and  my  back  has  no  crook  ; 
And  happy  I'd  be  if  May,  Maud,  and  Lucille 
Would  treat  me  as  one  who's  as  young  as  I  feel. 


PR/ESENS  REGNAT. 

DUFFIELD   OSBORNE. 

fTOW  often  have  I  asked  thee,  dear. 

If  thou  didst  love  but  me  ? 
How  oft  thy  whisper  in  mine  ear 
I  lath  answered  tenderly  ? 

And  deftly  I  the  truth  can  trace 

That  in  that  answer  lies, 
For  I  do  ever  see  my  face 

Deep  pictured  in  thine  eyes. 


Ah  me  !  a  tale  of  broken  vows 

Is  ringing  mournfully, 
A  bird  that  dwells  among  the  boughs 

I  lath  sung  a  song  to  me. 

Think  not  he  sang  her  heart  to  win, 
Trust  not  her  eyes  ;  beware  ! 

For  whosoever  looks  therein 
Beholds  his  likeness  there  ! 
138 


TO  A  CORKSCREW. 

DUFFIELD   OSBORNE. 


nrilOU  who  to  burdened  brain,  and  troubled  heart 

Dost  wind  thy  way  with  gently  sinuous  art, 
Slender,  and  graceful,  curled  with  skill  divine  ; 
Mirth,  riot,  and  revelry  are  ever  thine 
Whose  office  'tis  to  seek  and  free  the  captive  wine. 

Hail  !  to  thee  men  below  and  gods  above 
Attune  their  lays  of  homage  and  of  love  ; 
Fair  silver  ringlet  !  thou  dost  ever  cling 
With  truer  faith  to  peasant  and  to  king 
Than  curls  of  brown  or  gold  that  lovesick  poets  sing. 
139 


WE  PARTED  AT  THE  OMNIBUS. 

DONN    PI  ATT. 

"\1/"E  parted  at  the  omnibus,  I  never  can  forget 

Your  eyes,  my  dove,  like   stars   above,   with  dew 

were  heavy  wet  ; 
Your  luggage,  love,  I  handed  up   as  the  driver  round 

did  pull, 
I  could  not  speak  for,  O  my  heart,    like  the  omnibus, 

was  full. 

Your  slender  hand's  six-buttoned  glove  lay  nestling  soft 

in  mine, 
Your  clinging   gown,  my  sweetest  love,  in  tit  was  just 

divine  ; 
;t  Through  life,  my  pet,  I  go  with   thee, "  I  tremblingly 

begun, 
When  spoke  a  German  passenger,    "  Dere's  only  zeats 

vor  vun." 

My  miniature  you  had,  my  face  all  painted  smooth  and 

bland  ; 
Your  photo,  love,  you 'gave  me  as  the  agent  gave  his 

hand  ; 


WR  PARTED  AT  THE  O.ILVIBUS.  141 

"  You'll   write    to    me,  I    know    you    will,  this   aching 

heart  to  ease, 
And  every  line  from  you  will  be  " — "  Miss,  ten  cents, 

if  you  please." 


1  put  you  in  a  corner,  aear,  10  take  that  dreary  ride, 
I  saw  a  suit  of  striped  tweed  close  sitting  by  your  side ; 
With  gun  and  hound  from  out  the  town  to  hunt  'twas 

going  down, 
I  heard  a  suit  of  rusty  black  call  stripes  a  Mr.  Brown. 


With  wooden  damn  the  stage-door  slammed,  and  shut 

me  from  your  sight, 
My  heart  went  throbbing  "all  is   wrong  !  "  the  agent 

cried  "  all  right  !  " 
From    out  my  life,   you   rolled  away   with    unexpected 

speed, 
Three    trotting  hat-racks  in  the  team,  a  rocker  in  the 

lead. 


The  war  came  on,  as  volunteer  my  gallant  troops  I  led, 
And   lost  a  leg  at  Shiloh,  when  old  Sherman  lost  his 

head  ; 
And  Brown  was  there,  a  sutler  bold,  resplendent  in  the 

blue, 
He  fought  for  flag   and   country  where  the  profits  did 

accrue. 


,42  WE  PARTED  AT  THE   OMNIBUS. 

When  Peace  her  downy  pinions  spread  o'er  all  our  land 

and  sea, 

I  stumped  me  home  a  veteran  with  war's  sad  legacy  ; 
I  sought  you,  love,  to  find  alas  !  no  footing  left  to  me, 
For  General  Brown  was  to  the  front,  a  millionaire  was 

he. 

'Twas  at  a  grand  re-union  giv'n  in  honor  of  our  cause, 
The   banners   waved,    the   champagne    popped,    I   got 

some  wild  applause  ; 
I  saw  you  enter,  sweet  and   fair,  the  General   led  you 

down, 
You  leaned   to  him  so  lovingly,   he   called   you  Mrs. 

Brown. 


AT   MRS.  MILLIDOR'S. 

SYDNEY    HERBERT    PIERSON. 

T  WAS  down  at  the  Millidors'  Thursday, — 

They  receive  on  that  evening,  you  know, — 
And  could  hardly  have  chosen  a  worse  day, 

With  the  slush,  and  the  rain,  and  the  snow; 
But  the  parlors  were  filled  to  o'erflowing,— 

Lots  of  people  you  know,  I  presume, — 
But  I  thought  it  was  dull,  and  was  going, 

When  Ethel  came  into  the  room. 

There  was  Mrs.  Fitz-Simmons  de  Brown  there, 

Who  gave  such  a  dinner  last  fall ; 
And  every  one  else  in  the  town  there, 

Who's  really  worth  knowing  at  all : 
Miss  Tinsel,  considered  a  Hebe 

By  people  who  know  or  assume  — 
You'd  have  wondered  how  ever  could  she  be 

When  Ethel  came  into  the  room. 

There  was  fat  Mrs.  Space  and  a  lady 
(A  widow  that  never  wore  weeds) 

Hinting  somebody's  past  was  too  shady: 
Miss  Slur,  sowing  venomous  seeds; 
»43 


AT  MRS.  MILLIDOR'S. 

Miss  Wilted,  sarcastic  and  spiteful, 
Putting  Dowager  Dash  in  a  fume : 

How  odd  they  should  be  so  delightful 
When  Ethel  came  into  the  room. 

Of  course  there  were  long  recitations, 

Some  songs  sprinkled  in  here  and  there, 
Not  to  mention  the  minor  vexations 

One  had  to  look  pleased  at  and  bear ; 
Spout,  primed  with  those  verses  from  Browning 

He'll  recite  till  the  trumpet  of  doom  : 
Ah !   he  was  the  only  one  frowning 

When  Ethel  came  into  the  room. 

A  girl  with  a  mournful  expression 

Was  speaking  a  dolorous  thing  — 
A  horrible  sort  of  confession 

Of  dead  hopes  and  years  taken  wing. 
She  had  throttled  a  passion  :  'twas  fearful 

How  the  corpse  would  stalk  out  of  its  tomb; 
But  it  seemed,  on  the  whole,  rather  cheerful 

When  Ethel  came  into  the  room. 

The  dowagers'  wrinkled  old  faces 

Grew  older  by  ten  years  or  more, 
The  color  of  costly  old  laces, 

The  rest  not  a  bit  as  before. 
In  the  air  was  a  sound  as  the  humming 

Of  bees,  and  a  subtle  perfume 
Then  I  knew  ere  I  looked  she  was  coming, 

When  Ethel  came  into  the  room. 


AT  MRS.  MILLIDOR'S. 

But  there's  always  a  fly  in  the  ointment, 

The  lute  has  a  rift,  as  a  rule; 
Joy  brings  in  its  train  disappointment, 

And  tears  choke  the  jest  of  the  fool; 
So  I  thought  of  that  swell  marriage  lately, 

Where  gouty  old  Croesus  was  groom, 
As  he  ambled  behind  her  sedately 

When  Ethel  came  into  the  room. 


145 


BALLADE   OF   MIDSUMMER. 

SYDNEY    HERBERT    PIERSON. 

'"T^H  ROUGH  murky  panes  of  dusty  glass 
Where  swarm  slow,  sleepy  flies,  I  gaze 
Down  on  the  street.     Like  burnished  brass 

The  stones  reflect  the  sun's  hot  rays  ; 

I  hear  the  heavy-laden  drays 
Go  rumbling  through  the  dust  and  dirt; 

In  thought  I  see  the  cliffs  and  bays 
At  Newport  or  at  Mount  Desert. 

At  length  upon  the  breeze-swept  grass 
I  watch  the  ocean  through  the  haze, 

And  one  besides,  whose  smiles  surpass 
All  nature's  wiles.     The  sea-wind  plays 
Among  her  locks.     A  nymph  who  strays, 

LUue-jerseyed,  in  a  kilted  skirt. 

Ah  me  !  the  hearts  she  snares  and  slays 

At  Newport  or  at  Mount  Desert. 
9*  146 


BALLADE   OF  MIDSUMMER. 

Time  flies  no  more  for  me,  alas  ! 

He  only  comes  and  idly  stays, 
Too  warm  to  make  the  moments  pass 

And  hurry  on  vacation's  days; 

While  tantalizing  fancies  raise 
Cool  dreams  of  beaches  ocean- girt, 

Beyond  the  city's  busy  maze, 
At  Newport  or  at  Mount  Desert. 


Fate,  lead  me  by  those  summer  ways 
Where  happy  mortals  dance  and  flirt, 

And  thou  shalt  have  thy  meed  of  praise 
At  Newport  or  at  Mount  Desert. 


147 


VIOLETS. 

ERNEST    UE    LANCEY    PIERSON. 

"\  7IOLETS,  dainty  and  sweet, 

Born  of  the  dews  and  the  May, 
Not  in  the  dust  and  the  heat 
I  leave  you  to  perish  to-day. 

Nay,  in  the  lordliest  state 

Proud  shall  you  go  to  your  rest, 

Kings  could  but  envy  your  fate, 
Dying  to-night  on  her  breast. 

M8 


BLOWING   BUBBLES. 

ERNEST    DK    LANCEY    PIERSo.V 

T  CAN  see  you  standing  there 

In  your  Watteau  dress 
By  the  tapjstry  portiere, 
Firelight  on  your  yellow  hair, 
Daintier  I'm  sure  was  ne'er 
Dresden  shepherdess. 

Laughingly  you  stooped  and  blew 

Bubbles  in  the  air  ; 
Globes  of  irridescent  hue, 
Flashing  opals,  bright  as  de\v — 
But  my  eyes  were  all  on  you, 

Queenly,  standing  there. 

I,  upon  that  very  night, 

Formed  a  bubble  too, 
Silvery  with  your  smiles,  and  bright 
With  your  blue  eyes'  lustrous  light 
That  seemed  ever  to  invite 

One  to  come  and  woo. 

'49 


150  BLOWING  BUBBLES. 

Frail  my  argosy,  and  fair 
With  delusive  hope-  ; 
Soon,  ah  !  soon,  to  my  despair, 
Learned  I  when  it  burst  in  air 
It  was  made — as  others  were — 
Only  out  of  soap  .'. 


AN   APRIL   MAID. 

SAMUEL   MINTURN    PECK. 

'IPRIPPING  through  the  April  breeze 

In  a  kirtle  blue, 
Brighter  blossom  mello\*bees 
Ne'er  in  summer  woo. 

From  her  little  scarlet  mouth 

Rills  of  song  are  gliding, 
Ballads  of  the  balmy  South 

In  her  memory  biding. 

She  is  winsome,  she  is  shy, 

Clad  in  sweet  apparel ; 
Like  the  song  of  Lorelei 

Floats  her  dainty  carol. 

Round  about  her  wayward  hair 

Tricksy  fairies  hover, 
Tripping  sunbeams  unaware  — 

Who  could  choose  but  love  her  ! 

Up   and  down  her  velvet  cheek 

Dimples  chase  her  blushes, 
Will  she  listen  if  I  speak 

When  her  carol  hushes  ? 


AN  APRIL  MAID. 

Be  my  fate  or  drear  or  bright, 
Soon,  ah  soon,  I'll  know  it ; 

If  I  may  not  be  her  knight, 
Still  I'll  be  her  poet. 


A   SOUTHERN   GIRL. 

SAMUEL   MINTURN    PECK. 

T   TER  dimpled  cheeks  are  pale: 
n   she's  a  lily  of  the  vale, 

Not  a  rose. 
In  a  muslin  or  a  lawn 
She  is  fairer  than  the  dawn 

To  her  beaus. 

Her  boots  are  slim  and  neat, — 
She  is  vain  about  her  feet 

It  is  said. 

She  amputates  her  r's, 
But  her  eyes  are  like  the  stars 

Overhead. 

On  a  balcony  at  night 
With  a  fleece  cloud  of  white 

Round  her  hair  — 
Her  grace,  ah,  who  could  paint  ? 
She  would  fascinate  a  saint, 

I  declare. 

'Tis  a  matter  of  regret, 
She's  a  bit  of  a  coquette 
Whom  I  sing  : 

153 


A    SOUTHERN  GIRL. 

On  her  cruel  path  she  goes 
With  a  half-a-dozen  beaus 
To  her  string. 

But  let  all  of  that  pass  by, 
As  her  maiden  moments  fly 

Dew  empearled; 
When  she  marries,  on  my  life, 
She  will  make  the  dearest  wife 

In  the  world. 


COURTING  AN  HEIRESS. 

WALLACE   PECK. 

The  Lover. 

A    HUNDRED  thousand  peas  have  traced 

The  ecstasies  of  love  ; 
A  hundred  thousand  hearts  have  graced 

That  boon  from  gods  above, 
A  hundred  thousand  maids  have  shared 

la  Cupid's  fond  desire  ; 
A  hundred  thousand  youths  have  dared, 

For  love,  the  parents'  ire. 
A  hundred  thousand  pairs,  I  ween, 

Will  wedded  be  ere  long, 
What  says  my  hundred  thousand  Queen — 

Shall  we  augment  the  throng  ? 

The  Heiress. 

A  hundred  thousand  times  I've  said, 
"  Oh,  heart  !  your  wish  I  know  " 

These  hundred  thousand  tears  I  shed 
Hymeneal  longings  show 


156  COURT! XG  AN  HEIRESS. 

A  hundred  thousand  sighs — no  less — 

I've  cast,  when  we're  apart  ; 
A  hundred  thousand  times  now  press 

Me  to  your  loving  heart. 
I'll  send  a  hundred  thousand  miles 

To  order  my  trousseau 
•And  we'll  to  the  (hundred)  Thousand  Isles 

After  the  wedding  go. 


TO   A  SLIPPER. 

WILLIAM    THEODORE    PETERS. 

**  I  ^O  this  complexion  has  your  faded  satin 

*      With  much  ill  usage  come  at  last,  and  so 
You  stand  in  haughty  silence  on  my  mantle, 

A  high-heeled  slipper  with  a  pointed  toe. 
Does  there  still  linger  in  your  dainty  creases 

Some  faint,  dim  flutterings  of  soft  regret 
For  gay  young  hearts  that  once  beat  time  so  wildly,    • 

Watching  you  tripping  through  the  minuet  ? 

What  of  sweet  faces  brave  in  rouge  and  patches, 

And  powdered  heads  and  men  in  smalls  arrayed, 
Half  mad  with  admiration  at  your  glancing 

From  quilted  petticoat  and  stiff  brocade  ? 
What  of  soft  eyes,  round  arms,  and  burning  blushes? 

What  of  the  gallant  Tory  in  nankeen 
Who  made  such  fine  remarks  that  evening,  walking 

Along  the  Battery  to  Bowling  Green  ? 

* 
What  of  the  catches  trolled,  the  treasonous  ballads, 

The  brilliant  wit  about  the  steaming  bowl 
Of  Christmas  punch  ?  Ah  !  surely  such  bright  memories 

Must  still  be  stored  within  your  leather  sole. 


TO  A    SLIPPER. 


And  tell  me,  was  not  that  the  gladdest  scene,  and  merriest 

Of  all  the  many  scenes  you  moved  among  — 
The  day  that  Polly  Henderson  was  married  in  you, 
The    slipper  only  held  its  satin  tongue? 


TATTING. 

DAVID   L.    PROUDFIT. 

A17ITH  figure  demure,  and  downcast  face, 

And  a  tranquil  air  of  quiet  grace, 
Her  delicate  fingers  deftly  wrought 
A  pattern  as  fine  as  a  fairy's  thought. 
Tatting  that  day  ! 

Oh,  maiden  fair,  with  the  silken  hair, 
And  the  shining  eyes  of  a  lustre  rare, 
What  abracadabra,  mysterious  spell 
Is  thy  flying  shuttle  weaving  so  well,  » 

Tatting  to-day. 

Ah,  sir,  I  work  to  have  my  way 
In  the  perfumed  air  of  a  gracious  day, 
My  nimble  fingers  are  weaving  a  snare 
To  entangle  human  hearts.     Beware 
Of  my  tatting  to-day. 

So  the  lily  fingers,  entrancing  flew, 
And  the  lustrous  eyes  were  heavenly  blue  ; 
And  the  silken  hair  was  shot  with  gold, 
And  down  in  a  golden  glory  rolled, 
Tatting  that  day. 
'59 


TA  TTING. 

And  she  had  her  will  on  a  gracious  day, 
All  clad  in  a  cloud  of  white  array  ; 
And  I  bless  the  day  and  the  perfumed  air 
That  kissed  her  cheek  as  she  wow  her  snar 
Tatting  that  day. 


DOWN  THE  SWITCHBACK* 

DAVIT)    L.    SPOUDFIT. 

OIDE  by  side  we  rode  together, 

On  a  clear  October  day, 
While  the  mountains  crimson-crested 

Kept  a  royal  holiday. 
Down  the  Switchback  from  Mount  Pisgah 

We  went  speeding  o'er  the  hills, 
With  the  golden  sunlight  flashing 

From  the  rippling  mountain  rills, 
P.tit  the  flashing  and  the  glinting, 

And  the  blue  of  autumn  skies, 
Were  but  frosty  in  their  beauty 

To  the  summer  of  her  eyes. 
Side  by  side  we  rode  together, 

And  I  did  not  dare  to  wait 
For  she  was  seventeen,  and  I 

Was  turned  of  forty-eight. 

So  I  whispered  to  her,  "  Darling 

Let  us  travel,  side  by  side, 
Down  the  grade  of  Life's  long  Switchback, 

To  the  shoreless  ocean's  tide." 
161 


THE  SWITCHBACK 

But  she  looked  away  far  over 

All  the  hills  that  lay  between, 
To  the  distant,  dim  horizon, 

And  her  eyes  were  too  serene 
As  she  said,  ' '  I  like  October, 

With  its  splendors  of  decay, 
But  I  like  the  springtime  better, 

And  the  warm,  sweet  air  of  May. 
Thus  we  travelled  down  the  Switchback,, 

Thus  I  trifled  with  my  fate  : 
For  she  was  seventeen,  and  I 

Was  turned  of  forty -eight. 


IF. 

JAMES  JEFFREY   ROCHE. 

H,  if  the  world  were  mine,  Love, 

I'd  give  the  world  for  thee  ! 
Alas !  there  is  no  sign,  Love, 
Of  that  contingency. 

Were  I  a  king, —  which  isn't 

To  be  considered  now, — 
A  diadem  had  glistened 

Upon  that  lovely  brow. 

Had  fame  with  laurels  crowned  me, — 

She  hasn't,  up  to  date, — 
Nor  time  nor  change  had  found  me 

To  love  and  thee  ingrate. 

If  Death  threw  down  his  gage,  Love, 

Though  life  is  dear  to  me, 
I'd  die,  e'en  of  old  age,  Love, 

To  win  a  smile  from  thee. 

But  being  poor,  we  part,  dear, 
And  love,  sweet  love,  must  die  ; 

Thou  wilt  not  break  thy  heart,  dear, 
No  more,  I  think,  shall  1  ! 

163 


DON'T. 

JAMES   JEFFREY    ROCHE. 

X/'OUR  eyes  were  made  for  laughter; 

Sorrow  befits  them  not ; 
Would  you  be  blithe  hereafter, 
Avoid  the  lover's  lot. 

The  rose  and  lily  blended 
Possess  your  cheeks  so  fair ; 

Care  never  was  intended 
To  leave  his  furrows  there. 

Your  heart  was  not  created 

To  fret  itself  away, 
Being  unduly  mated 

To  common  human  clay. 

But  hearts  were  made  for  loving  — 

Confound  philosophy  ! 
Forget  what  I've  been  proving, 

Sweet  Phyllis,  and  love  me  ! 


164 


COQUETTE. 

HARRISON    ROBERTSON. 

"/COQUETTE,"  my  love  they  sometimes  call, 

^^   For  she  is  light  of  lips  and  heart : 
What  though  she  smile  alike  on  all, 
If  in  her  smiles  she  knows  no  art  ? 

Like  some  glad  brook  she  seemes  to  be, 

That  ripples  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 
And  prattles  to  each  flower  or  tree, 

Which  stoops  to  kiss  it,  overhead. 

Beneath  the  heavens  white  and  blue 
It  purls  and  sings  and  laughs  and  leaps, 

The  sunny  meadows  dancing  through 
O'er  noisy  shoals  and  frothy  steeps. 

'Tis  thus  the  world  doth  see  the  brook ; 

But  I  have  seen  it  otherwise 
When  following  it  to  some  far  nook 

Where  leafy  shields  shut  out  the  skies. 

And  there  its  waters  rest,  subdued, 

In  shadowy  pools,  serene  and  shy, 
Wherein  grave  thoughts  and  fancies  brood, 

And  tender  dreams  and  longings  lie. 

165 


166  COQUETTE. 

I  love  it  when  it  laughs  and  leaps, 
But  love  is  better  when  at  rest  — 

'Tis  only  in  its  tranquil  deeps 
I  see  my  image  in  its  breast ! 


TWO    TRIOLETS. 

HARRISON    ROBERTSON. 

What  he  said. 

PHIS  kiss  upon  your  fan  I  press  — 

Ah  !  Sainte  Nitouche,  you  don't  refuse  it ! 
And  may  it  from  its  soft  recess  — 
This  kiss  upon  your  fan  I  press  — 
Be  blown  to  you,  a  shy  caress, 

By  this  white  down,  whene'er  you  use  it. 
This  kiss  upon  your  fan  I  press, — 

Ah,  Sainte  Nitouche,  you  don't  refuse  it ! 

What  she  thought. 
To  kiss  a  fan  ! 

What  a  poky  poet ! 
The  stupid  man 
To  kiss  a  fan 
When  he  knows  —  that —  he  —  can— 

Or  ought  to  know  it  — 
To  kiss  a  fan  ! 

What  a  poky  poet ! 


167 


APPROPRIATION. 

HARRISON    ROBERTSON. 

/^VNE  day,  one  balmy  "day  of  days," 

I  fortunately  found  her 
Down  in  the  sweet  old  garden's  maze, 

Hid  by  its  bloom  around  her. 
'  She  stood  beneath  the  apple-tree, 

Against  it  idly  leaning, 
Gazing  with  eyes  that  did  not  see, 
A-dream  with  subtle  meaning. 

She  stood  in  snowy  stuff  bedight, 

Her  lips  a  rose  caressing, 
Against  the  tree  one  nude  and  white 

Round  arm  her  cheek  was  pressing. 
Rich-favored  tree  —  its  boughs  above 

In  flaky  banks  were  blowing, 
Which,  at  the  nearness  of  my  love, 

In  tender  pink  were  glowing. 

I  paused,  yet  loth  to  spoil  the  scene, 

Content  to  thus  adore  her  ; 
And  then  the  shrubbery  between 

I  made  my  way  before  her. 


. .-  /  Y  v;  a  PR  i  A  TION.  ,  n , 

A  start  —  the  slightest  did  it  seem 
To  me  —  such  was  my  greeting. 

Ah  !  had  I  been  part  of  that  dream 
Which  scarcely  yet  was  fleeting  ? 

"  I  come  into  your  life,  my  dear, 

As  in  your  dream,"  I  told  her. 
"  I  love  you,  and  your  place  is  here  "- 

"  Here  "  being  next  my  shoulder. 
Her  place  was  there,  her  face  was  there 

Within  her  hands  all  hidden ; 
And  on  her  rippling,  sunny  hair 

I  pressed  a  kiss  unchiclden. 

How  sweet,  among  the  apple-trees, 

The  silent  spell  that  bound  us, 
With  naught  but  languid  bloom  and  bees 

And  mating  birds  around  us  ! 
"  You  have  not  said  you  love  me  yet," 

At  last  T  whispered  to  h'er. 
She  raised  her  eyes  —  ah  !  were  they  wet  ? — : 

And  as  I  nearer  drew  her, 

Within  their  tender  depths  I  read 

The  answer  I'd  entreated  ; 
No  words  of  lips  could  have  unsaid 

What  those  soft  eyes  repeated. 
And  then,  with  coy,  maternal  air, 

She  smiled  and  touched  my  forehead, 
"  And,  Jack,  you  must  not  comb  your  hair 

So  high,"  she  said  — "  it's  horrid  !  " 
10 


THE  RHYME  OF  A  FAN. 

LIZETTE    WOOnWOKTH    REESE. 

pAINT  Anastasia  as  a  saint  ; 

Priscilla  as  a  Puritan, 
Holding  long  lily-stalks  ;  but  paint 
Dear  Dolly  with  a  fan  ! 

It  ij  a  page  wherefrom  we  read 

Each  word  she  has  to  say  ; 
Learn  who  may  come,  and  who  must  speed, 

And  who  may  near  her  stay. 

It  is  a  wall  as  stout  as  stone, 

Where  sweet  and  cold  of  face, 
When  'tis  her  mood  she  sits  alone 

Behind  its  frill  of  lace. 

'Tis  covered  thick  with  blossoms  small 

Red-tinted  like  the  morn  ; 
And  he  who'd  dare  to  scale  that  wall 

Would  find  each  rose  a  thorn. 

Ah,  Dolly,  Dolly  !  we  confess, 
Amongst  us  all  there's  not  a  man, 

But  knows  he's  loved  a  little  less 
Than  your  quaint  silken  fan  ! 


A  ROSEBUD. 

LIZETTE   WOODWORTH    REESE. 

'THE  sad  South  lurks  about  her  mouth, 

The  North  is  in  her  eyes  ; 
She  is  the  bough  with  bloom  of  snow — • 
The  sweetest  weather  that  we  know- 
She  is  both  warm  and  wise. 

The  sad  South  taught  those  tricks  of  fan, 

Those  dainty,  Old  World  ways  ; 
And  watching  her,  we  seem  to  be 
In  Spain  ;  gray  streets  slip  to  the  sea, 
And  roofs  are  dim  with  haze. 

But,  ah  !  her  eyes  are  Saxon  blue ! 

.So  we  must  watch  again  ; 
Straightway  the  tall  thorn  hedges  blow, 
The  nightingales  sing  loud,  sing  low, 

Down  some  dusk  Devon  lane. 

The  secret's  out.     If  South  and  North 

Be  both  at  Maude's  command, 

Is  it  great  wonder  she's  so  sweet, 

And  sends  us  poor  lads  to  her  feet 

With  one  touch  of  her  hand  ? 


CLOE  TO  CLARA. 
(A   Saratoga  Letter.) 

JOHN    G.    SAXE. 

"TVEAR  CLARA  : — I  wish  you  were  here: 

The  prettiest  spot  upon  earth  ! 
With  everything  charming,  my  dear — 

Beaux,  badinage,  music  and  mirth  ! 
Such  rows  of  magnificent  trees,  * 

Overhanging  such  beautiful  walks, 
Where  lovers  may  stroll,  if  they  please, 

And  indulge  in  the  sweetest  of  talks ! 

And  then,  what  a  gossiping  sight  ! 

What  talk  about  William  and  Harry  ; 
How  Julia  was  spending  last  night  ; 

And  why  Miss  Morton  should  marry  ; 
Dear  Clara,  I've  happened  to  see 

Full  many  a  tea-table  slaughter, 
But,  really,  scandal  with  tea 

Is  nothing  to  scandal  with  water  ! 

'Tis  pleasant  to  guess  at  the  reason — 
The  genuine  motive  which  brings 

Such  all -sorts  of  folks  in  the  season 
To  stop  a  few  days  at  the  Springs. 

Some  come  to  partake  of  the  waters, 

The  sensible,  old-fashioned  elves, 
172 


CLOE   TO  CLARA.  173 

Some  come  to  dispose  of  their  daughters, 
And  some  to  dispose  of — themselves  ! 

Some  come  to  exhibit  their  faces 

To  new  and  admiring  beholders  ; 
Some  come  to  exhibit  their  graces, 

And  some  to  exhibit  their  shoulders  } 
Some  come  to  make  people  stare 

At  the  elegant  dresses  they've  got  ; 
Some  to  show  what  a  lady  may  wear, 

And  some — what  a  lady  may  not  ! 

Some  come  to  squander  their  treasure, 

And  some  their  funds  to  improve  ; 
And  some  for  a  mere  love  of  pleasure, 

And  some  for  the  pleasure  of  love  ; 
And  some  to  escape  from  Jie  old, 

And  some  to  see  what  is  new  ; 
But  most — it  is  plain  to  be  told — 

Come  here — because  other  folks  do ! 

And  that,  I  suppose,  is  the  reason 
Why  /am  enjoying  to-day 

What's  called  "  the  height — of  the  season." 

•   In  rather  the  loftiest  way. 

Good -by — for  now  I  must  stop- 
To  Charley's  command  I  resign — 

So  I'm  his  for  the  regular  hop, 
But  ever  most  tenderly  thine. 


A  REASONABLE  PETITION. 

JOHN    G.    SAXE. 

VOU  say,  dearest  girl,  you  esteem  m^ 

A:id  hint  of  respectful  regard, 

And  I'm  certain  it  wouldn't  beseem  me 

Such  an  excellent  gift  to  discard. 

But  even  the  Graces,  you'll  own, 
Would  lose  half  their  beauty  apart 

And  Esteem,  when  she  stands  all  alone 
Looks  most  unbecomingly  tart. 

So  grant  me,  dear  girl,  this  petition  : — 
If  Esteem  ere  again  should  come  hither, 

Jtt.it  to  keep  her  in  cheerful  condition. 
Let  Love  come  in  company  with  her  ', 

'74 


TO  A   CHINESE   IDOL. 

CLINTON    SCOLLARD. 


o 


NCE  you  ruled,  a  god  divine, 
In  a  sacred  shady  shrine, 
Near  a  river  dark  as  wine, 

'Mid  the  trees ; 
And  to  you  the  mandarins, 
With  their  smooth  unshaven  chins, 
Prayed  absolvence  from  their  sins 
On  their  knees. 

Tiny-footed  Chinese  maids, 
With  their  raven  hair  in  braids, 
Sought  you  in  your  quiet  shades 

'Neath  the  boughs; 
Haply  for  a  thousand  years 
You  beheld  their  smiles  and  tears, 
Listened  to  their  hopes  and  fears 

And  their  vows. 

Now  above  her  escritoire 
In  my  lady's  pink  boudoir, 
Ever  dumbly  pining  for 

Lost  repose, 


i76  TO  A    CHINESE  IDOL. 

You  sit  stolid,  day  by  day, 
With  your  cheeks  so  thin  and  gray, 
Stony  eyes  and  retrousse 
Little  nose. 

Where  the  sunlight  glinteth  o'er 
Persian  rug  and  polished  floor, 
You  will  frown  forevermore, 

Grim  as  hate; 
A  divinity  cast  down, 
Having  neither  shrine  nor  crown, 
Once  a  god,  but  now  a  brown 

Paper-weight ! 


AT  THE   LETTER-BOX. 

CLINTON    SCOLLARD. 

LAD  in  the  gem  of  frocks, 
By  the  green  letter-box, 
With  her  short  wavy  locks 

Bound  by  no  fetter, 

Musing  I  see  her  stand, 
Raise  her  arm  slowly,  and 
Drop  from  a  slender  hand 

One  little  letter. 

I  can't  acquaintance  claim, 
Know  not  her  tender  name, 
Yet  will  my  fancy  frame 

Romances  of  her. 

That  the  neat  billet-doux, 
Perfumed —  of  creamy  hue, 
So  lately  lost  to  view 

Is  to  her  lover. 

Somehow  I  seem  to  feel 
That  he  made  strong  appeal, 
Said  he'd  be  "  true  as  steel," 

Ever  her  "  Harry  " 

i77 


i73  AT  THE  LETTER-BOX. 

But  that  she  bade  him  wait, 
Called  him  precipitate, 
Hinted  her  happy  fate  — 

Never  to  marry. 

This  is  her  answer.  This, 
Weighted  with  woe  or  bliss 
(Much  in  parenthesis 

Many  lines  under), 

Borne  from  its  dark  recess, 
Soon  will  its  all  confess  ; 
Will  it  be  "  no,"  or  "yes ?  "— 

Which  one,  I  wonder  ? 


ROSE    LEAVES. 

CLINTON   SCOLLARD. 

\  A  J I  THIN  this  fragile  urn  by  chance 

I  found  them,  void  of  scent  and  faded, 
Reminders  of  a  sweet  romance 

That  budded,  bloomed,  and  died  as  they  did. 

The  years  have  flown  in  swallow  flight 
Since  last  we  met,  and  I  incensed  her  ; 

Her  eyes  have  lost  their  laughing  light, 
And  Time  has  long  conspired  against  her. 

Here  let  them  lie  —  the  once  admired  — 

A  food  for  idle  contemplation, 
Dead  as  the  passion  they  inspired, 

The  ashes  of  an  old  flirtation. 


179 


AT   THE   CHURCH    DOOR. 

HENRY    B.    SMITH. 

ALICE  has  gone  to  confession. 
What  has  the  girl  to  confess  ? 
What  little  idle  transgression 
Causes  my  sweetheart  distress  ? 
Is  it  her  fondness  for  dress 
That  needs  a  priest's  intercession, 
And  brings  that  pensive  expression 
Into  her  eyes'  loveliness  ? 
What  has  the  maid  to  confess  ? 

Is  it  some  little  flirtation, 

-Ending  perhaps  in  a  kiss  ? 
Mine  be  the  sin's  expiation, 

If  I  but  shared  in  its  bliss. 

Is  it  a  trifle  like  this, 
Seeking  its  justification  ? 
Was  it  a  rash  exclamation 

Some  one  has  taken  amiss  ? 

Was  it  a  trifle  like  this  ? 

She  who  lives  always  so  purely 
Cannot  so  gravely  transgress. 

One  who  can  smile  so  demurely 
Cannot  have  much  to  confess. 

I  So 


A  T  THE   CHURCH  DOOR.  Igl 

Let  me  for  pardon  address, 
For  I  am  guiltier,  surely. 
Sin  your  small  sins,  then,  securely; 

If  it  is  I  that  they  bless, 

Mine  be  the  task  to  confess. 


MY   MAUSOLEUM. 

HENRY    B.    SMITH. 

I T  is  a  crypt,  this  cabinet ; 

A  love  affair  is  buried  here  ; 
Its  requiem  a  faint  regret, 

And  scented  letters  for  a  bier. 
Its  wreaths,  dead  roses  interlaced 

With  memories  of  ball  and  _/?/<?, 
While  for  a  headstone  I  have  placed 

A  portrait  in  a  paper-weight. 

Here  lie,  as  ashes  in  an  urn, 

A  verse  or  two  I  learned  to  quote, 
The  notes  I  had  no  heart  to  burn, 

Our  letters, —  what  a  lot  we  wrote  !  — 
A  silken  tress  of  sunny  strands, 

A  ribbon  that  I  used  to  prize, 
A  glove, —  she  had  such  tiny  hands, — 

A  miniature  with  deep,  dark  eyes. 

'Tis  with  a  smile  I  view  to-day 

The  relics  in  this  cabinet. 
When  Love  is  dead  and  laid  away 

We  mourn  a  little,  then  forget. 
The  verses  quite  have  left  my  mind. 

Her  rose,  her  glove,  her  pictured  eyes, 
Her  letters,  are  to  dust  consigned  ; 

Their  fitting  epitaph,  "  Here  —  lies." 


A  MARRIAGE   A  LA   MODE. 

HENRY    15.    SMITH. 

HAVE  you  heard  what  they  are  saying 
O'er  the  walnuts  and  the  wine, 
Secrets  eagerly  betraying 

About  your  affairs  and  mine  ? 
Foe:,  and  friends  receive  attention 

From  each  chatting  beau  and  belle, 
And  they  casually  mention 

That  Marie  has  "  married  well." 

"  Married  well !  "    Ah,  that's  expressive. 

And  from  it  we  understand 
That  the  bridegroom  has  excessive 

Stores  of  ducats  at  command. 
Is  he  good  ?     He  has  his  vices  ! 

Has  he  brains  ?     We  scarce  can  tell. 
Handsome  ?    Hardly  !     It  suffices, 

If  Marie  has  married  well. 

Does  she  love  him  ?    Love's  a  passion, 

Childish  in  this  latter  day. 
She  will  dress  in  height  of  fashion, 

And  her  bills  he'll  promptly  pay. 
Does  he  love  her  ?     Wildly,  madly  ! 

Since  he  bought  his  trotter  "Nell," 
He  has  welcomed  naught  as  gladly ; 

Yes,  Marie  has  married  well. 


184  A    MARRIAGE  A    LA    MODE. 

Is  she  happy  ?     That's  a  trifle ; 

Happiness  is  bought  and  sold; 
And  she  readily  can  stifle 

Love  she  used  to  know  of  old. . 
Well  she  knows  a  heart  is  broken ; 

As  for  her's  — she  cannot  tell ; 
But  her  bridal  vows  are  spoken, 

And  Marie  has  married  well. 

In  this  game  one  should  give  heeding 

To  the  stakes,  not  gentle  arts ; 
And,  when  diamonds  are  leading, 

Where's  the  use  of  playing  hearts  ? 
I  congratulate  her  gladly  ; 

But  the  wish  I  can't  dispel 
That  most  girls  may  marry  badly. 

If  Marie  has  married  well. 


AT   BAR   HARBOR. 

S.    DECATUR   SMITH. 

THEY  accuse  me  of  flirting  with  Harry, 
Who  hasn't  a  cent  to  his  name, 
And  certainly  don't  mean  to  marry  ; 
Such  slander's  a  sin  and  a  shame. 

They  say  I've  been  often  seen  walking 
With  Harry  alone  on  the  rocks  ; 

We've  been  seen  on  the  sand  sitting  talking, 
Regardless  of  custom  —  and  frocks. 

They  say  we  were  walking  together 
The  day  of  that  trip  to  the  lake  ; 

And  our  losing  our  way  in  the  heather, 
They're  certain  was  not  a  mistake. 

At  Rodick's,  they  frequently  mention, 
When  laughter  is  noisy  and  loud, 

We,  with  care  to  attract  no  attention, 
Slip  quietly  off  from  the  crowd. 

One  nasty  old  tabby's  reported 

She  saw  him  one  evening  last  week 

(Good  gracious  !  how  truth  is  distorted  !) 
Press  a  kiss  on  my  too- willing  cheek. 


AT  BAR  HARBOR. 

Such  stories  as  these  are  invention ; 

The  truth  in  them  simply  is  nil. 
If  I  have  done  the  things  that  they  mention, 

It  wasit't  with  Harry  —  'twas  Will! 


A  WOMAN'S   WEAPONS. 

S.    DECATUR    SMITH. 

HE  RE'S  a  smile,  and  a  glance,  and  a  blush,  and  a  sigh, 
And  perhaps,  on  occasion,  a  tear ; 
There's  a  delicate  touch  of  a  hand,  on  the  sly, 
And  a  flower  she  may  wear  when  he^s  near  ; 

There's  a  note  in  her  voice  that  but  one  may  awake, 
And  a  gleam  in  her  blue  (or  brown)  eye ; 

There's  a  kiss  on  her  lip  that  some  fellow  may  take 
(Now  why  the  deuce  isn't  it  I  ?)  ; 

There's  the  turn  of  a~i  ankle,  the  size  of  a  waist, 

And  the  way  that  she  does  up  her  hair ; 
There's  the  fit  of  a  glove,  and,  according  to  taste, 

The  tint  of  the  dress  she  may  wear ; 

There  are  words  that  are  often  but  semi-expressed, 

And  some  are  hid  others  below  ; 
For  instance,  a  "  yes  "  may  be  frequently  guessed 

Through  a  clearly  reversible  "  no." 

Yet  her  infinite  change  is  her  strongest  of  arms, 
As  the  song  says,  "Femme  souvent  varie  ;  " 

But  what  does  she  want  with  such  numberless  charms, 
When  one  of  them  finishes  me  ? 
n*  187 


AN    OLD    GLOVE. 

DE   WITT    STERRY. 


girl,  these  tiny  slips  of  kid 
Once  your  dear,  dimpled  digits  hid, 

And  to  your  elbow  pretty 
They  climbed  without  the  least  alarm  ; 
Or  was  it  that  they  thought  your  arm 
The  fairest  in  the  city  ? 

One  finger's  gone  —  the  middle  right  : 
I  use  it,  dear,  when  I  indite 

My  rhymes  by  yellow  tapers, 
To  shield  my  finger-nail  from  ink  ; 
How  would  you  fare  if  you  —  just  think  !• 

Lived  on  the  comic  papers  ? 

That  night  !     Can  I  forget  that  night  ? 
Again  I  see  the  candlelight, 

And  hear  the  rippling  laughter  ; 
How  many  plates  I  passed  between 
The  openings  in  that  teakwood  screen  ! 

How  soon  1  followed  after  ! 

I  knew  you  feigned  that  stern  surprise, 
I  knew  it  by  your  twinkling  eyes  ; 

Besides,  you  know  your  chatter 


AN   OLD   GLOVE. 

Fell  on  a  fascinated  car 
That  time  I  bent  my  lips  —  my  dear, 
I'll  never  breathe  the  matter. 

But  I've  grown  careless  of  my  loves, 
And  am  as  bad  at  crossing  gloves 

As  turning  off  a  sonnet. 
The  sight  of  it  just  made  me  grow 
A  trifle  warm,  my  dear,  and  so 

I  penned  these  verses  on  it. 


BALLADE  OF    BARRISTERS. 

(Irregular.) 
C.    C.    STARKWEATHER. 

>"T~*O  the  shy,  sweet  face  that  I  saw  this  morning',, 

*      I  toss  this  kiss  from  my  window-sill, 
And  mayhap  my  partner  will  give  me  warning 

If  I  shove  not  quicker  my  gray  goose-quill. 

I've  t-.venty  folios  yet  to  fill. 

So  it's  Blue  Eyes,  Down  !  till  this  deed  is  drawn  ; 
For  Maiden  Lane's  not  a  lover's  lawn, 

And  the  rattle  of  Broadway  never  is  still. 

From  seal  and  parchment  and  dust-covered  papers, 
My  thoughts  fly  back  to  her  —  willy  nil. 

I  lunch  at  Cable's  on  lamb  and  capers, 
And  a  secret  bumper  I  drain  with  Phil, 
And  I  smile  when  he  leaves  me  to  pay  the  bill. 

Oh,  it's  Blue  Eyes,  Down  !   till  this  deed  is  drawn ; 

For  Maiden  Lane's  not  a  lover's  lawn, 
And  the  rattle  of  Broadway  never  is  still. 


BALLADE    OF  BARRISTERS.  i- 

My  office  is  no  conservatory  ; 

Its  walls  are  like  blanks  for  a  clerk  to  fill ; 
But  that  mignonette,  jasmine,  and  morning-glory 

The  charms  of  a  whole  hot-house  would  kill  — 

In  the  white  vase  there,  on  the  window-sill. 
But  it's  Blue  Eyes,  Down  !   till  this  deed  is  drawn ; 
For  Maiden  Lane's  not  a  lover's  lawn, 

And  the  rattle  of  Broadway  never  is  still. 


Barristers!    with  brief-bags  to  fill, 

It's  Blue  Eyes,  Down  !  till  the  deeds  are  drawn  ; 

For  Maiden  Lane's  not  a  lover's  lawn, 
And  the  rattle  of  Broadway  never  is  still. 


il 


RIVALS. 

C.    C.    STARKWEATHER. 

JENNY,  how  many  songs  you've  chased  away! 
To  love,  I  own,  is  better  far  than  singing. 
A  host  of  rhymes  surrendered,  dear,  to-day, 
Or  perished  in  a  peal  of  laughter  ringing. 

For  how  am  I,  by  any  dreamt-of  means, 
To  write  an  Ode  to  Progress  while  you're  smiling? 

Or  tell  of  orange-groves,  or  dreamy  scenes 

Of  distant  climes,  with  your  sweet  voice  beguiling? 

I've  seen  the  Attic  marbles'  tinted  grace, 

And  swung  in  hammocks  'neath  a  palace  rafter, 

But  can  I  match  a  temple  with  your  face, 

Or  weep  for  Pan  before  your  mocking  laughter? 

If  Pan  is  dead,  you're  very  much  alive  ! 

And  my  rapt  flights  you  are  forever  stopping ! 
I  must  be  wary  if  I'd  fill  my  hive, 

And  woo  the  Muse  when  you  have  gone  out  shopping! 


PROVENgAL  LOVERS. 

(Aucassin  and  Nicollctte.) 

EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN. 

"U7ITHIN  the  garden  of  Beaucaire 

He  met  her  by  a  secret  stair  ; — 
The  night  was  centuries  ago, 
Said  Aucassin,  "  My  love,  my  pet, 
These  old  confessors  vex  me  so  ! 
They  threaten  all  the  pains  of  hell 
Unless  I  give  you  up,  ma  belle  ;  ' ' — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicollette. 

"•  Now  who  should  there  in  Heaven  be 
To  fill  your  place,  ma  tres  douce  mie  ? 
To  reach  that  spot  I  little  care  ! 
There  all  the  droning  priests  are  met  ; 
All  the  old  cripple.?,  too  are  there 
That  unto  shrines  and  altars  cling 
To  filch  the  Peter-pence  we  bring  ;  " — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicollette. 

1 1  There  are  the  barefoot  monks  and  friars 
With  gowns  well-tattered  by  the  briers, 
The  saints  who  lift  their  eyes  and  whine  : 
I  like  them  not — a  starveling  set  ! 
Who'd  care  with  folks  like  these  to  dine  ? 

iQ3 


PROVENCAL  LOVERS. 

The  other  road  'twere  just  as  well 

That  you  and  I  should  take,  ma  belle  !  ' r 

Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolctte. 

"To  Purgatory  I  would  go 
With  pleasant  comrades  whom  we  know, 
Fair  scholars,  minstrels,  lusty  Knights 
Whose  deeds  the  land  will  not  forget, 
The  captains  of  a  hundred  fights. 
True  men  of  valor  and  degree  : 
Will  join  that  gallant  company, "- 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicollette. 

"•  There,  too,   are  guests  and  joyancc  rare, 
And  beauteous  ladies  debonair, 
The  pretty  dames,  the  merry  brides 
Who  with  their  wedded  lords  coquette 
And  have  a  friend  or  two  besides — 
A-xl  all  in  gold  and  trappings  gay, 
With  furs,  and  crests  in  vairand  gray  ;  "• 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicollete. 

"  Sweet  players  on  the  cithern  strings 
And   they  who  roam  the  world  like  kings 
Are  gathered  there  so  blithe  and  free  ! 
Pardic  I  I'd  join  them  now,  my  pet. 
If  you  went  also,  ma  douce  mic  ' 
The  joys  of  heaven  I'd  forego 
To  have  you  with  me  there  below, "- 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicollette. 


TOUJOURS  AMOUR. 

EDMUND   CLARENCE    STEDMAN. 

DRITHEE  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin 
At  what  age  does  Love  begin  r 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen  ; 
But  a  miracle  of  sweets, 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  Archer  there, 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair  ; 
When  did'st  learn  a  heart  to  win  ? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 

"  Oh  !  "  the  rosy  lips  reply, 
"I  can't  tell  you  if  I  try. 

'Tis  so  long  T  can't  remember  : 
Ask  some  younger  lass  than  II" 

Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled -Face 
Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace  ? 
When  does  hoary  Love  expire, 
When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire  ? 
Can  its  embers  burn  below 
195 


196  TOUJOURS  AMOUR. 

All  that  chill  December  snow  ? 
Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press, 
Bonny  heads  to  smoothe  and  bless  ? 
When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase  ? 
Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled -Face  ! 

"  Ah  !  "  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 

"Youth  may  pass  and  strength  may  die  ; 
But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken  : 
Ask  some  older  sage  than  I  !  " 


PAN  IN  WALL  STREET. 

EDMUND   CLARENCE    STEDMAN. 

jUST  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 
J    Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  nations 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations  ; 
Where,  nour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people, 
The  quarter  chimes,  serenely  tolled 

From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple, — 

Even  here  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 
Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor, 

Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  hammer  ; 

And  swift  on  Music's  misty  ways, 
It  led,  from  all  this  strife  of  millions, 

To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  days 
the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 


And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 
I  saw  the  minstrel  where  he  stood 

At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar  : 

I  7 


PAN  IN  WALL  STREET. 

One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 

Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  mad- 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impassioned. 

Tvvas  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here- 

A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city. 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty  ! 
The  demi-god  had  crossed  the  seas — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and  satyr, 
And  Syracusan  times — to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head  ; 

IKit — hidden  thus — there  was  no  doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'crspread, 

His  gnarled  horns  w^re  somewhere  sproutin  \ 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 

Were  crossed,  as  0:1  some  frieze  you  see  them, 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues. 

Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath  them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound, 

And  o'er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted. 
And  with  his  goat's  eyes  looked  around 

Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted  ; 
And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear  him, 
Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 

With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near  him. 


PAN  IN  If  ALL 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jaunsey  Court  and  New  Street  Alley, 
As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley  ; 
The  random  passers  stayed  to  list — 

A  boxer  /Egon,  rough  and  merry, 
A  Broadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 

With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  ferry. 

A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng, — 

A  blowzy,  apple-vending  slattern  ; 
While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From  some  new-fangled  lunch-house  handy, 
And  badj  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy  ! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut  girl 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper  ; 
His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper  ; 
And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 
While  aye  the  shepherd -minstrel  blew 

His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

O  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught  her 


PAX  AV  WALL  STREET. 

Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water  ! 
New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean -portals 
But  Music  waves  eternal  wands, — 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals  ! 

So  thought  I — but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demi-god, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

"  Great  Pan  is  dead  !  "--and  all  the  people 
Went  on  their  ways  : — and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 


FRENCH  WITH  A  MASTER. 

THEODORE    TILTON. 

'TEACH  you  French  ?     I  will,  my  dear  ! 

Sit  and  con  your  lesson  here, 
What  did  Adam  say  to  Eve  ? 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  c'est  a  vivre. 

Don't  pronounce  the  last  word  long  ; 
Make  it  short  to  suit  the  song  ; 
Rhyme  it  to  your  flowing  sleeve, 
Aimer,  aimer  ;    c'est  a  vivre. 

Sleeve  I  said,  but  what's  the  haim 
If  I  really  meant  your  arm  ? 
Mine  shall  twine  it  by  your  leave, 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  c'est  a  vivre. 

Learning  French  is  full  of  slips  ; 
Do  as  I  do  with  the  lips  ; 
Here's  the  right  way,  you  perceive, 
Aimer,  aimer  ;   c\'st  a  vivre. 

20 1 


FRENCH  WITH  A  MASTER. 

French  is  always  spoken  best 
Breathing  deeply  from  the  chest  ; 
Darling,  does  your  bosom  heave  ? 
Aimer,  aimer  ;    c"1  est  a  vivre. 

Now,  my  dainty  little  sprite, 
Have  I  taught  your  lesson  right : 
Then  what  pay  shall  I  receive  ? 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  c'est  a  vivre. 

Will  you  think  me  overbold 
If  I  linger  to  be  told 
Whether  you  yourself  believe 
Aimer,  aimer  ;    c"1  est  a  vivre  ? 

Pretty  pupil,  when  you  say 
All  this  French  to  me  to-day, 
Do  you  mean  it,  or  deceive  ? 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  c'esf  a  vivre. 

Tell  me,  may  I  understand, 
When  I  press  your  little  hand, 
That  our  hearts  together  cleave  ? 
Aimer,  aimer  ;    fest  a  vivre. 

Have  you  in  your  tresses  room 
For  some  orange  buds  to  bloom, 
May  I  such  a  garland  weave  ? 
Aimer,  aimer  ;    c'est  a  vivre. 


FRENCH    WITH  A    MASTER. 

Or,  if  I  presume  too  much, 
Teaching  French  by  sense  of  touch, 
Grant  me  pardon  and  reprieve  ! 
slimer,  aimer  ;    c'est  a  vivrc. 

Sweetheart,  no  !  you  cannot  go  ! 
Let  me  sit  and  hold  you  so  ; 
Adam  did  the  same  by  Eve — - 
Aimer,  aimer  ;    fest  a  vivre. 


LE  GRENIER— AMERICAN  VERSION, 

14  Dans  tin  grenier  qti'on  cst  bien  a  vingt  ans."1"1 

BERANGER. 

ROBERTSON    TROWBRIDGE. 

TTERE  is  the  street — the  house  is  standing  yet  ! 

Four  stories  up  the  little  window  gleams. 
The  basement  still  announces  tl  Rooms  to  Let  ;  " 

Through  the  wide  door  the  dusty  sunlight  streams. 
But  how  the  place  has  changed  !     Across  the  way 

A  tenement  its  swarming  bulk  uprears— 
'Twas  here  I  weathered  it  for  many  a  day, 

With  Youth  and  Hope  for  friends,  at  Twenty  Years, 


A  small  hall-room  !     I  seek  it  half  by  stealth — 

Who  cares  ?  the  world  may  know  it  if  it  will  ! 
The  worst  is  told.     I  had  stout  heart,  good  health, 

A  modest  clerkship,  wants  more  modest  still  ; 
Companions,  too  (I  had  companions  then  !) — 

What  room  in  all  my  "  up-town  palace  "  hears 
Such  peals  of  mirth  as  yonder  little  den 

When  I  and  Youth  kept  house,  at  Twenty  Years  ! 


LE  GRENIER.  205 

'Twas  here  I  brought  my  bride.     In  that  dim  place 

The  too  brief  summer  of  our  joy  first  smiled. 
Which  of  your  carpet-knights,  my  queenly  Grace, 

To  such  a  lot  will  woo  your  mother's  child  ? 
Just  powers  !  how  dared  we  to  be  gay  and  glad, 

To  face  the  world,  unvexed  by  cramping  fears  ? 
Rash? — reckless  ?     We  were  mad  ! — how  nobly  mad 

With  the  brave  wine  of  Love  and  Twenty  Years  ! 

Once,  as  we  listened  at  the  window  there, 

In  the  warm  sunlight  of  an  April  day, 
A  sound  of  loyal  thunder  filled  the  air — 

-The  Massachusetts  Sixth  marched  down  Broadway. 
O  gallant  hearts  and  times  !     O  drum  and  fife  ! 

In  '62  I  joined  the  volunteers. 
Poor  wounded  soldier,  lonely  waiting  wife, 

We  learned  what  glory  meant,  at  Twenty  Years  ! 

It's  time  to  go.     The  place  looks  chill  and  drear. 

Fate  !  were  it  lot  of  mine  to  overlive 
But  half  the  happy  days  I've  counted  here, 

I'd  give — what  have  I  that  I  would  not  give  ? — 
Again  to  struggle  on,  to  breast  the  tide, 

To  know  the  worst  of  Fortune's  frowns  and  fleers, 
Brave  heart  within,  my  darling  by  my  side, 

And  all  the  world  to  win,  at  Twenty  Years  ! 


UNDERSTOOD. 

EDITH    SESSIONS    TUITEK. 

He  Speaks. 
F)AINTED  and  perfumed,  feathered  and  pink, 

Here  is  your  ladyship's  fan. 
You  gave  it  to  me  to  hold,  I  think. 
While  you  danced  with  another  man. 

Downy  and  soft  like  your  fluffy  hair. 

Pink  like  your  delicate  face, 
The  perfume  you  carry  everywhere 

Wafted  from  feathers  and  lace. 

He  Thinks. 
Painted  and  perfumed,  dainty  and  pink, 

A  toy  to  be  handled  with  care  ; 
It  is  like  your  ladyship's  self  I  think. 

A  trifle  light  as  air. 

For  you  are  a  wonderful  triumph  of  art, 

Like  a  Dresden  statuette  ; 
But  you  cannot  make  havoc  in  my  poor  heart, 

You  innocent-faced  coquette. 

For  I  understand  those  enticing  ways 

You  practice  on  every  man  ; 
You  are  only  a  bit  of  paint  and  lace 

Like  that  delicate  toy — your  fan. 

206 


TO   A  JAPANESE   BABY. 

HENRY   TYRRELL.. 

WOU  dwell  in  a  dove-cote,  where  tinkle 
*     The  ornaments  hung  from  the  eaves, 
Strange  trees  shade  it ;  blossoms  besprinkle 
The  dark  plumy  leaves. 

Tea-garden  and  temple  and  fountain, 
From  out  the  wide  window  you  view  ; 

And  yonder,'  the  snow-crested  mountain 
High  up  in  the  blue. 

On  bending  your  baby  eyes  nearer, 

Where  slumbers  the  still -watered  moat, 

You  watch,  like  rose  leaves  on  a  mirror, 
The  lotos  blooms  float. 

Your  face  is  as  brown  as  a  berry, 

In  outline  as  round  as  a  rose ; 
Black  slits  of  eyes,  wakefully  merry, 

Slant  down  to  your  nose. 

Your  head,  like  a  friar's,  is  shaven  — 
How  droll !  not  a  hair  can  one  find, 

Except  the  tuft,  black  as  a  raven, 
That's  twisted  behind. 

207 


TO  A    JAPANESE  BABY. 

Around  your  form  airily  flutter 

Fantastic  and  bright-colored  "  things  "  ; 

You  look  like  a  gorgeous,  rare  butter- 
Fly,  resting  its  wings. 

You've  soft  mats  to  romp  on  and  tumble ; 

Of  furniture,  though,  there's  not  much  ; 
No  breakage,  to  make  grown  folks  grumble 

No  caution,  "  Don't  touch  !  " 

Your  world  is  so  simple  and  sunny, 
So  pleasing  and  quaint  to  the  eye  — 

No  wonder  your  plump  face  grows  funny, 
But  never  can  cry. 

We  love  you,  Babe  Bric-a-brac,  dearly, 
Though  ne'er  have  we  been  to  Japan  ; 

We  know  your  wee  dimpled  face —  merely 
Through  this  painted  fan, 


12 


MITTENS. 

HENRY   TYRRELL. 

F)URE  frost  winds,  on  the  winter's  eve, 

You  play  among  my  lady's  tresses, 
And  pink  as  apple-bloom  you  leave 

The  cheeks  that  take  your  light  caresses ; 
But  from  her  little  hands  begone  ! 

By  you  they'll  not  be  kissed  nor  bitten, 
For  over  each  is  snugly  drawn  — 

A  tiny  pale-blue  mitten. 

The  slender,  perfume-haunted  glove, 

Erstwhile  that  hid  her  lily  fingers, 
Is  not  the  shield  that  most  they  love, 

Whereon  a  pressure  honest  lingers. 
More  shy,  confiding,  tender,  true, 

And  softer  than  two  curled-up  kittens, 
Are  those  dear  dainty  twins  of  blue, 

My  lady's  little  mittens. 

Once  at  the  play,  when  lights  were  low, 

And  down  had  dropped  the  great  green  curtain, 

I  took  her  hand ;  we  turned  to  go ; 

Her  fingers  clasped  o'er  mine,  I'm  certain. 

209 


MITTENS. 

That  sudden  thrill  I  feel  again, 
That  never  could  be  told  or  written, 

Whene'er  I  see  or  touch,  as  then, 
Her  downy  little  mitten. 

Some  memories  those  mittens  hold, 

And  secrets,  might  one  coax  confession, 
Ah,  dearer  than  a  gage  of  gold 

I'd  count  if  I  could  gain  possession ; 
Yet  ask  her  I  shall  never  dare, 

Nor  tell  her  how  my  heart  is  smitten, 
For  fear,  in  answer  to  my  prayer, 

She  might  "  give  me  the  mitten." 


MIS-MATCHED. 

HENRY    TYRRELL. 


E  —  'twas  years  ago  —  I  found  me 
Moved  by  magic  strange  ; 
All  accustomed  earth  around  me, 

Dreamlike,  felt  the  change. 
Berthe  was  fair.     I  learned  to  love  her 

As  a  flower  might  do  — 
For  a  moment's  fondness  of  her 

Fain  had  withered,  too, 
Such  love,  love  does  not  discover  ; 

And  she  never  knew. 
Though  to  none  could  she  be  dearer, 
Though  my  heart  was  far  sincerer 

Than  the  hearts  of  men, 
What  could  come  of  all  this  loving  ? 
I  was  only  ten. 

Other  eyes,  full-orbed  and  tender, 

Drop  their  curtains  fine 
With  a  timid  half  surrender, 

Now,  at  glance  of  mine. 


MIS-MA  TCHED. 

Praise,  that  elsewhere  I  seek  vainly, 

Tempts  a  soft  reply, 
Or  she  says,  "  I  like  you,"  plainly  ; 

Edith  is  not  shy. 
I  but  jest  and  laugh  inanely, 

Or  repress  a  sigh. 
Yes,  I  throw  away  the  treasure 
(Not  without  a  sense  of  pleasure, 

And  a  touch  of  pain). 
What  can  come  of  all  this  loving  ? 
She  is  only  ten. 


"THE   MORNING  AFTER." 

HAROLD    VAN    SANTVOORD. 

I  HEARD  a  rustle  in  the  hall, 

*  Where  erst  we  stood  'mid  waning  tapers  ; 

She  met  me  in  her  breakfast- shawl, 

Her  crimps  all  twisted  in  curl-papers ; 
The  night  before  she  looked  a  queen 

In  satin  sheen  and  fluffy  laces, 
But  now  just  where  the  rouge  had  been 

Her  powder-puff  had  left  its  traces. 

Beneath  the  blazing  chandelier 

I  felt  so  shy  and  she  so  wary, 
My  brain  reeled  with  a  sudden  fear 

That  she  might  prove  a  lissome  fairy 
And  vanish  in  a  golden  dream, 

On  gauzy  wings,  if  zephyrs  wooed  her, 
Away  from  aught  that  she  might  deem 

The  hateful  bane  of  gross  intruder. 

Alas  !  a  tantalizing  shade, 

A  cheat,  she  was,  a  vain  delusion ! 
Is  beauty  ever  thus  to  fade  ? 

My  mind  has  reached  this  sad  conclusion. 
"  Oh,  face  of  nature,  always  true," 

The  poet  sang  who  never  chaffed  her ; 
But,  lovely  women,  ye  are  few 

Whose  faces  lure  "  the  morning  after." 
213 


HER    FIRST    TRAIN. 

A.  E.  WATROUS. 

\  A  USES  and  Graces  appear  ! 

Fountain  Pierian  flow  ! 
Greuze  in  the  spirit  be  near  ! 

Aid  me,  O  shade  of  Watteau  ! 
Ancients  and  moderns  a-row, 

Strike  me  your  worthiest  strain, 
Little  my  theme  do  I  know  — 
'Tis  the  young  lady's  First  Train. 

Ah  !  in  my  heart  there  is  fear, 

Chill  in  its  coming  as  snow ; 
She  who  approacheth  me  here, 

Stately  and  sweeping  and  slow  — 
Could  I  have  romped  with  her  ?    No, 

This  duchess  ?  oh,  dream  most  profane! 
All  that  was  decades  ago  — 

'Tis  the  young  lady's  First  Train. 


HER  FIRST  TRAIN. 

How  shall  I  suit  her?     It's  clear 

Battledore,  racquet,  and  bow 
Barred  are  and  banned.     In  this  sphere, 

Certes,  I'm  somewhat  de  trop; 
Still,  we  accustomed  may  grow, 

Standing-ground  common  regain, 
Even  if  —  presage  of  woe  !  — 

'Tis  the  young  lady's  First  Train. 

L'ENVOI. 

Comrades,  to  friend  and  to  foe 

Thus  my  changed  bearing  explain. 

Say  :  "  If  aught's  turned  him  a  beau, 
'Tis  the  young  lady's  First  Train." 


OLD    BOHEMIANS. 

A.  E.  WATROUS. 

HEU  fugaces !  where  are  they  ? 
The  creeping  day,  the  flying  night, 
The  warmth,  the  color,  clamor,  light  — 

Friend  of  the  scythe  and  hour-glass  say 

Eheu  fugaces  !  where  are  they  ? 

Eheu  fugaces  !  where  are  they  ? 

The  songs  we  sang,  the  cups  we  quaffed, 
The  eyes  that  shone,  the  lips  that  laughed  — 

Old  mower,  went  they  by  your  way  ? 

Eheu  fugaces  !  where  are  they  ? 

Eheu  fugaces  !  where  are  they  ? 

The  lights  that  lined  the  lonely  street, 
When  homeward  tripped  the  dainty  feet 

That  fled  against  the  glance  of  day  — 

Eheu  fugaces  !  where  are  they  ? 

Eheu  fugaces  !  where  are  they 

Who  walked  the  ward,  who  trod  the  court  ? 

Stout  fellows  all  for  toil  or  sport ; 
Ah,  who  shall  break  then  he  shall  pay  — 
Eheu  fugaces  !  where  are  they  ? 
216 


OLD    BOHEMIANS.  217 

Eheu  fugaces  !  where  are  they  ? 

The  old  jaw  drops,  the  old  veins  freeze; 

And  where  is  Lil  and  where's  Louise, 
Whose  kisses  made  a  "  yes  "  of  "  nay  " — 
Eheu  fugaces  !  where  are  they  ? 

Eheu  fugaces  !  where  are  they  ? 

We've  made  our  running,  tossed  our  dice, 
And  Time's  are  loaded.     In  a  trice — 

Perhaps  a  year,  perhaps  a  day  — 

They'll  ask :    "  The  garrulous  and  gray, 

Eheu  fugaces !  where  are  they  ?  " 


w 


HER  NAME  WAS  FELICE. 

CHARLES    HENRY   WEBB. 

HEN  soft  and  sweet  the  summer  moon 


Smiled  down,  and  all  was  peace, 
And  every  pulse  of  mine  kept  tune. 
I  learned  her  name — Felice. 

First  on  the  beach,  then  in  the  brine, 
(Some  thought  it  was  my  niece) 

She  laid  her  little  hand  in  mine, 
And  said  she  was — Felice. 

And  all  who  sat  along  the  shore 
And  watched  the  tide's  increase, 

Knew  I  was  Felix,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Did  they  think  her — Felice  ? 

Still  swings  on  high  the  self- same  moon 
Still  all  around  seems  peace, 

Still  sit  I  on  the  sandy  dune. 
But  where  is  she — Felice  ? 

The  summer  moon  still  swings  on  high- 
Oh,  .summer,  must  you  cease  ? 

Infelicissimus  am  I  ? 
But  she  is  still — Felice. 


DISCARDED. 

CHARLES    HENRY    WEBB. 

T  AST  night  I  lay  on  her  breast  ; 
k  To-day  I  lie  at  her  feet  ; 
Then  to  her  heart  I  was  pressed  ; 
Now  you  tread  on  me,  sweet ! 

Ah,  lightly  as  possible  pray — 
Grace  for  your  rose  of  last  night  ! 

If  perhaps  I  look  faded  to-day, 

Are  you  quite  so  fresh  in  this  light  ? 

And,  though  nice  of  you  dropping  that  tear, 

There  are  some  who  may  think  it  my  due — 
Did  it  never  occur  to  you,  dear, 

That  the  flower  may  have  wearied  of  you  ? 
219 


IN  A  BAY-WINDOW. 

CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB. 

A  H,  yes,  there's  a  change  in  the  weather  ; 

It  does  look  a  little  like  snow — 

Though  in  this  recess  it  seems  summer, 

And  around  us  these  red  roses  blow. 

There  is  scarcely  a  theme  we've  not  touched  on- 
Secluded,  but  talking  at  large 

From  the  latest  lyric  of  Locker 
To  the  very  last  freak  of  Lafargc. 

And  now  it  has  come  to  the  weather — 
As  you  say,  there's  a  feeling  of  snow  ; 

But  do  you  not  think  it  was  warmer 
In  this  window  one  winter  ago  ? 

Whose  landscape,  that  one  near  the  curtain  ? 

It  is  good  ?     I  really  don't  know  ; 
I  am  thinking  instead  of  the  picture 

Seen  then  where  these  Jacqueminots  blow. 


7Ar  A   HA  1  -  WIN  DO  H ' 

Just  the  same  sweet  profusion  of  roses, 

A  lady,  a  silken  divan, 
A  vase — was  it  Wedgewood  or  Minton  ?— 

And  a  gentleman  holding  a  fan. 

Was  the  talk  then  of  art  and  the  weather  ? 

Who  could  say  ?  for  their  voices  were  low  ; 
But  none  then  who  saw  them  together 

Thought  it  looked  in  the  slightest  like  snow 

Must  I  look  at  that  thing  on  the  easel  ? — 
Naughty  nymph,  and  a  bad  Bouguercau  ! 

But  you  plainly  prefer  any  picture 

To  the  one  whose  each  detail  you  know. 

You  think  it  unwise  to  recall  things  ? 

Unwise  !     It  is  wrong,  on  my  life  ! 
The  weather's  so  different  this  winter — 

You  are  married — and  I — have  a  wite. 

Around  us  the  same  crimson  curtains, 
Just  as  warmly  the  Jacqueminots  glow  ; 

But  I  feel  the  same  chill  that  you  speak  of— 
In  the  air  there  is  certainly  snow  ! 


THE    DUET. 

ELLA   WHEELER   WILCOX. 

I   WAS  smoking  a  cigarette  ; 

Maud,  my  wife,  and  the  tenor  McKey 
Were  singing  together  a  blithe  duet, 
And  days  it  were  better  I  should  forget 

Came  suddenly  back  to  me : 
Days  when  life  seemed  a  gay  masque  ball, 
And  to  love  and  be  loved  was  the  sum  of  it  all. 

As  they  sang  together,  the  whole  scene  fled, — 

The  room's  rich  hangings,  the  sweet  home  air, 

Stately  Maud,  with  her  proud  blonde  head, 

And  I  seemed  to  see  in  her  place  instead 
A  wealth  of  blue  black  hair, 

And  a  face,  ah!  your  face, —  yours,  Lisette, 

A  face  it  were  wiser  I  should  forget. 

We  were  back  —  well,  no  matter  when  or  where  ; 

But  you  remember,  I  know,  Lisette  — 
I  saw  you,  dainty  and  debonnaire, 
With  the  very  same  look  that  you  used  to  wear 

In  the  days  I  should  forget ; 
And  your  lips,  as  red  as  the  vintage  we  quaffed, 
Were  pearl-edged  bumpers  of  wine  when  you  laughed. 


THE  DUET. 

Two  small  slippers  with  big  rosettes 

Peeped  out  under  your  kilt  skirt  there, 
While  we  sat  smoking  our  cigarettes, 
(Oh,  I  shall  be  dust  when  my  heart  forgets!) 

And  singing  the  self-same  air ; 
And  between  the  verses  for  interlude, 
I  kissed  your  throat,  and  your  shoulders  nude. 


You  were  so  full  of  a  subtle  fire, 

You  were  so  warm  and  so  sweet,  Lisette ; 
You  were  everything  men  admire, 
And  there  were  no  fetters  to  make  us  tire, 

For  you  were  — a  pretty  grisette; 
But  you  loved,  as  only  such  natures  can, 
With  a  love  that  makes  heaven  or  hell  for  a  man. 


They  have  ceased  singing  that  old  duet, 
Stately  Maud  and  the  tenor  McKey. 
"  You  are  burning  your  coat  with  your  cigarette, 
And  qu'avez  vous,  dearest,  your  lids  are  wet," 

Maud  says,  as  she  leans  o'er  me ; 
And  I  smile,  and  lie  to  her,  husbandwise, 
"  Oh,  it  is  nothing  but  smoke  in  my  eyes." 


ILLOGICAL. 


ELLA    WHEELER    WILCOX. 

OHE  stood  beside  me  when  I  gave 
an  order  for  a  bonnet. 

She  shuddered  when  I  said,  ' '  And  put 

a  bright  bird's  wing  upon  it." 


A  member  of  the  Audubon 

Society  was  she  ; 
And  cutting  were  her  comments  made 

on  worldly  folks  like  im-. 

She  spoke  about  the  helpless  birds 

we  wickedly  were  harming 

She  quoted  the  statistics,  and 

they  really  were  alarming. 

She  said  God  meant  his  little  birds 

to  sing  in  trees  and  skies  : 

And  there  was  pathos  in  her  voice, 

and  tears  were  in  her  eyes. 


ILLOGICAL.  225 

"  Oh,  surely  in  this  beauteous  world 

you  can  find  lovely  things 

Enough  to  trim  your  hats, ' '  she  said, 

"without  the  dear  birds'  wings." 

I  sat  beside  her  that  same  day, 

irf  her  own  house  at  dinner — 

Angelic  being  that  she  was 

to  entertain  a  sinner. 

Her  well-appointed  table  groaned 

beneath  the  ample  spread. 

Course  followed  appetizing  course, 
and  hunger  sated  fled  ; 

But  still  my  charming  hostess  urged, 

"Do  have  a  reed  bird,  dear, 

They  are  so  delicate  and  sweet 

at  this  time  of  the  year." 


HER   BONNET. 

MARY   E.  WILKINS. 

"VAT"  HEN  meeting-bells  began  to  toll, 

And  pious  folk  began  to  pass, 
She  deftly  tied  her  bonnet  on, 
The  little,  sober  meeting  lass, 

All  in  her   neat,  white-curtained  room,  before  her   tiny 
looking-glass. 

So  nicely,  round  her  lady-cheeks, 
So  smoothed  her  bands  of  glossy  hair, 
And  innocently  wondered  if 
Her  bonnet  did  not  make  her  fair  — 
Then  sternly  chid   her  foolish  heart  for  harboring   such 
fancies  there. 

So  square  she  tied  the  satin  strings, 
And  set  the  bows  beneath  her  chin ; 
Then  smiled  to  see  how  sweet  she  looked ; 
Then  thought  her  vanity  a  sin, 

And  she  must  put  such  thoughts  away  before  the  sermon 
should  begin. 

226 


HER  BONNET.  227 

But,  sitting  'neath  the  preached  Word, 
Demurely  in  her  father's  pew, 
She  thought  about  her  bonnet  still,— 
Yes,  all  the  parson's  sermon  through, — 
About  its  prefty  bows  and  buds  which  better  than 
the  text  she  knew. 

Yet  sitting  there  with  peaceful  face, 
The  reflex  of  her  simple  soul, 
She  looked  to  be  a  very  saint  — 
And  maybe  was  one,  on  the  whole  — 
Only  that  her  pretty  bonnet  kept  away  the  aureole. 


FINIS. 


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